


No Single Riders

by tvheit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (sometimes), Alternate Universe - Amusement Park, And Will Stay Alive, Bird Whisperer Clint Barton, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Everyone Is Alive, Fanny Packs, Food, Gen, Get Well Soon Cards, Gods Pretending to be Lifeguards, Hey Jarvis Play Despacito, Horse Tranquilizer, Humor, Hydra, Instant Noodles, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No One is a Functioning Adult, Plumber Bruce Banner, Sam Wilson the S.H.I.E.L.D. Receptionist, Slice of life (?), Some Grievous Bodily Harm, Super Cool Boss Fights, The Words 'Stark Park', Unbelievable Amounts of Roasting, What's a Linear Timeline?, so many plot holes, so much food, some semblance of a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 05:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16152707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvheit/pseuds/tvheit
Summary: Stark sits on the table in front of Steve and squints into his face. “So why the hell are you here?”“Uh,” Steve says eloquently, “I’m applying for a job?”“Bullshit.” Stark says.Steve wakes up from a 90 year nap, bargains his supersoldier body with S.H.I.E.L.D’s scientists for a civilian identity, ends up working at a water park run by Howard Stark’s son, eats entirely too much Spam, changes his last name, meets some gods (fanny pack unfortunately included), watches a bird show, gets involuntarily shot up with ketamine, finds out who Beyonce is, ends up in hospital, lifeguards several small children, breaks up cat fights, is ambushed in a grocery store, uses his shield as a gong (?), enters a final boss fight, and gets married. Not necessarily in that order.





	1. First Impressions, Introductions, and 21st Century Customer Service

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is the end result of many months spent developing and writing my first actual fanfic by myself; a cracky, feel good, absolutely idiotic water and amusement park au where everyone is just living life as best they can. I'm so grateful to the Captain America Big Bang mods for organizing such an amazing event - I can't think of a better way to finally try out writing solo.
> 
> Big big thanks as well to the absolutely amazing [whatthefoucault](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/) who was so patient with me through the troubles I ran into during making the fic and who has an absolutely adorable art style!! I'm so excited about this collaboration and I have found it such a lovely experience <3
> 
> Along with that, thank you so much to my two betas, [softleiaa](http://softleiaa.tumblr.com/) and [Distressedegg](http://egg-o.tumblr.com) I'm sorry that things were messy due to my disorganisation but thank you for giving me amazing concrit and edits (Emily) and also absolutely roasting me (Snove) <3
> 
> And with all that out of the way, enjoy the fic!!

When Steve wakes up from what is essentially a seventy-year nap, he punches a fake wall and ends up fidgeting in the office of a very unimpressed man with an eyepatch that gives off the air of someone who knows too much and hates it.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, Captain.” Eyepatch Man announces. Steve glances around the office warily. It’s very transparent and very high above ground. There’s a clock that emits a soft green light and blinks on his desk. “I’m Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.” He says it in such a way that Steve can hear the acronym. It’s not a big comfort.

“What am I doing here?” he asks, attempting a commanding tone. Years of taking a detour into the Arctic, however, had not been kind on his vocal chords and it comes out more like a boy going through puberty. Fury respectfully does not crack a smile.

“We’re going to rehabilitate you for this new world, Cap. Run some tests, see what that golden juice in you is really capable of,” He pauses to take a sip of water from a glass on the table. Steve has a staring contest with his kneecaps.

“America’s first superhero, back from the dead! The press’ll have a field day, which means we have to get you ready for it. Agent Hill is already organizing your press team for when we leak the news–”

Steve jerks up and his knees hit the table.

“No,” he says.

“No?” parrots Fury.

Steve looks up slowly, aiming his best Captain gaze at Fury’s eyes. Er, eye.

“No press,” he repeats carefully, making sure his throat won’t betray him this time, “In fact, no  _ anything _ .”

Fury puts down the glass of water. The motion reminds Steve of a jaguar; calculating, yet coiled and ready to attack.

“And why is that?” He asks Steve in the same, slow tone, as if daring him. Steve thinks of the plane. Of Peggy. Of Howard and Dr. Erskine. Of the Howling Commandos. Of Bucky, falling.

“Captain America died seventy years ago,” he replies, “Only thing he left was me.”

* * *

Evidently, that wasn’t enough to make Fury relent and leave him to prance out the door as you fancy. It still took long, torturous debating that slowly dissolved into thinly-veiled threats (Fury letting slip that S.H.I.E.L.D. has the country’s best holding cells, Steve accidentally mentioning his innate ability to punch his way out of any situation, eyepatches included) until they finally came to an agreement; S.H.I.E.L.D would keep all knowledge of Captain America’s survival from the general public and allow Steve to assume a new identity in return for being able to have him under constant public surveillance and the right to call him in for tests regarding the serum. From there, it takes approximately forty minutes for a sharply dressed woman to stalk into the room with what looked like a metric ton of forms. She sets them down at the meeting table and places a pen neatly in front of Steve, before stalking off again, shoes clicking against the floor. He stares at them hopelessly. Fury bares his teeth in what looks like an approximation of a smile.

“We figured you wouldn’t want to bother with trying to use a computer just yet,” he says, before leaving Steve to sit and stare with the beginnings of regret at the mountain of papers.

* * *

Steve had done many things; took down HYDRA bases, went on an unauthorized solo rescue mission, crashed a plane and himself, punched Hitler 200 times, etc. Now he thinks, blinking awake blearily, writing himself to sleep can go on that list. The hand cramp he got at around eight last night had persisted for another two hours until he tried to force the pen out of his grip and gave it hairline fractures. Halfway between Stack Five, Pages Eighty-three to One-hundred and nine, Steve must’ve either been knocked unconscious by the S.H.I.E.L.D agents who were definitely watching him and probably felt sorry, or even his super-soldier brain hadn’t been able to keep up with filing for taxes in 2011. He doesn’t want to think about which one it is.

Closer inspection of the page he had stopped writing on shows barely legible chicken scrawling. It takes him several minutes to decipher it as the information details of his mother (fake), who died when he was three due to tuberculosis. His father (also fake) ran away when he was eight and dumped him into some orphanage in Brooklyn, where he lived until he was legal (some semblance of truth). For fun, under his fictional father’s distinguishing features section, he gives the vaguest description of Nick Fury possible. He also toys with the idea of having seventeen other siblings. Having to make up an entire life in a new century based on four hours of conversations was going to mean that S.H.I.E.L.D. would have to fix some pretty big plot-holes. Steve, feeling victoriously petty at this thought, adds his multitude of siblings with a flourish.

Stack Fourteen turns out to be the last of the damned forms. Steve would have wept for joy if it wasn’t for the same, sharply dressed woman clicking back into the room the moment he finished the last stroke on Page Fifty-two. Of course they were monitoring him. He forces the pen gently out of his hand and curses the serum silently for not removing muscle cramps.

She gathers up all the papers with scary efficiency and pauses long enough to give him a curt smile and say “Director Fury will be with you in a moment” before elegantly walking away despite the alarming amounts of loose paper balanced in her arms. Steve fears her.

* * *

Director Fury does come back eventually, a man holding a tray of food following him. The man is wearing a crisp black suit. He squeaks when he sees Steve.

“Captain, this is Phil Coulson. I trust him with most things,” Fury says in lieu of an introduction. Steve stands up and smiles. He must have done something wrong, because Phil Coulson gapes like a goldfish before turning bright red, like Steve used to do when he had an asthma attack. He really hopes he didn’t just scare him into having one. Fury sniggers.

“He’s a fan,” he says and Coulson puts the tray down as hastily as possible and runs to shake Steve’s hand. He is very enthusiastic.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Coulson babbles, “I have so many pictures of you in my room.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. Fury snorts.

* * *

Coulson, apart from being about as eager as some of the showgirls Steve went on tour with, is incredibly competent when needed. After Fury feeds Steve (who would have eaten the tray too if he hadn’t remembered that he was a functioning member of society), debriefs, and dismisses them, they’re both led into a comfortable room where Coulson proceeds to give Steve the most rigorous crash course in the twenty-first century, which mostly boiled down to Technology for Dummies.

“These are called tablets. They’re like squashed computers.”

“Screens are very commonplace nowadays. Your phone now fits in your pocket. Yes, the entire thing.”

“This is the internet; specifically, Google. You can ask it anything. No, don’t – don’t talk to it, it’s not that smart yet, you have to type it into this bar.”

“This is Beyoncé. She has nothing to do with what I’m supposed to teach you but if you go out into the world without knowing who our queen is you won’t survive more than a day.”

Steve decides that the future is  _ terrifying _ .

* * *

A week and twelve uncomfortable needles later, Steve is given a manila folder.

“That’s you,” Fury says, nodding to the innocent file, “All the important parts of your new, definitely real identity. Human Resources has a field day going through your imagination. Seventeen siblings? Really?”

Steve tries and fails to hide a smile. He opens the folder, which is surprisingly innocuous. A birth certificate, I.D., bank details, a black plastic card, some military documents (fake-Steve was honorably discharged, something real-Steve never got to experience because he fancied a nose-dive into the Pacific instead), and one of those smartphones Coulson had painstakingly explained to him for hours about. No passport, so he can’t leave the country. That was weirdly smart of S.H.I.E.L.D to keep him confined within their reach.

Fourteen minutes later, he has the keys to a S.H.I.E.L.D owned Brooklyn safehouse apartment, a duffel bag of weird discount clothing, a new wallet (American flag pattern included, thank you Coulson), and a new life to live.

Halfway out the door, Fury calls after him.

“Captain.”

Steve pauses, one foot already over the threshold.

“Yes, Director?”

“Your last name,” Fury begins, looking intently at his own screen thing, evidently reading Steve’s new files, “You sure you want to use that?”

Steve shrugs. ‘Steve’ was a common enough first name, so he kept it. It hadn’t taken him long to choose a last name either, because the natural choice was so obvious.

“I don’t have a problem with it. Do you?”

Fury does a complicated facial expression like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or tell Steve he’s an idiot.

“None at all. Carry on, soldier.”

* * *

By the first month, Steve knows where the nearest supermarket is (two blocks away) and nothing else. He uses up the cash S.H.I.E.L.D gives him really quickly, because it’s in no way his fault that his metabolism made him eat his weight in Spam. Coulson ambushes him in the sauce aisle one day, sticks some black thing ( _ a communication device,  _ his brain helpfully supplies from the Tech for Dummies lecture) into his ear and walks him through using the black plastic card. Turns out Steve has a lot more money than he originally was aware of.

He stops buying baked beans and starts buying Lunchables.

* * *

Civilian life, Steve quickly finds out, is every bit as complicated as the war was.

For one, he’s tragically bad at doing anything that involves electronics, which basically rules out ninety percent of the basic human routine that people in 2011 follow. Coulson starts mysteriously appearing to help him out whenever he’s pathetically trying to coax a kitchen appliance to work. Steve never finds out if it’s S.H.I.E.L.D sending him or if it’s just Coulson being Coulson.

By the second month, Steve has learnt how to use:

\-        The toaster

\-        The microwave

\-        The dishwasher (to an extent)

\-        The washing machine (although Steve has many pink socks now)

He even makes his first call on his new phone to Coulson, all by himself. Coulson reacts appropriately – which is to say, he reacts like a teenage girl getting a love letter from her beloved, shrieking included.

After the third month, Steve learns to use the stove and oven. Fury sends him a text that reads  _ Thank god you’ve stopped buying fucking canned food and Lunchables. _

Steve buys an entire shelf of Spam the next time he goes to the supermarket. Fury sends him another text that reads  _ For fucks sake. _

After the fourth month, Steve is, well, comfortable. He can turn on the TV now and flip channels with ease. He rode the train for the first time and decided that walking was much nicer. He can use the internet (YouTube provides countless hours of entertainment) and can call people (the only numbers he has are Coulson’s and Fury’s, though) using his phone. He buys a motorbike, mostly by himself. The sharply dressed woman (Steve later learns that her name is Maria Hill) appears at his side at the showroom suddenly to hand him a driver’s license, before mouthing  _ sorry we forgot _ before dissolving away. Evidently all S.H.I.E.L.D agents are trained in the secret art of teleportation.

After getting comfortable, Steve realizes that he’s  _ bored _ . S.H.I.E.L.D calls him in once every fortnight for tests and after that money mysteriously appears in his bank account. Steve sometimes, mid-coffee drinking and cat video watching, remembers the scope of control S.H.I.E.L.D actually has on his life. It’s not an incredibly reassuring thought.

He sets out to get a job.

* * *

“So,” Tony Stark, head of R&D and successor of Stark Industries says, “S.H.I.E.L.D sent you.”

He clasps his hands and leans forward over the desk, scrutinizing Steve. Steve feels a bead of sweat roll down his back, which is dumb because Stark has the air conditioner on at what seems to be negative seven degrees.

“No,” he says. He’s been saying a lot of that recently. Stark’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

“Are you lying? Is Captain America allowed to lie?” He stands up abruptly and starts to walk around the desk. “Because last I checked, you’re under S.H.I.E.L.D’s care, and they’d never just let a national icon walk out on them like that. Jarvis, gimme a hand here – is Frosty the Snow Captain here lying?”

“Captain America is not lying, sir,” the ceiling says, giving Steve at least three heart attacks, “He and S.H.I.E.L.D have an agreement, the contents of which I am unable to access.”

“Yet,” Stark mutters. He sits on the table in front of Steve and squints into his face. “So why the hell are you here?”

“Uh,” Steve says eloquently, “I’m applying for a job?”

“Bullshit.” Stark says, hopping off the desk to pace the room.

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. All he did was answer one or two newspaper job listings, one of which happened to be a position at the Stark Industries amusement park. Next thing he knew, his presence was immediately requested at Stark Tower, where he came face to face with Howard’s son. It was all very alarming. Tony Stark keeps pacing. He seemed to be muttering under his breath.

“–why would he – damn shield always fucking meddling – does he even need to work? – gotta tell Pepper to pull the newspaper ads, next thing you know we’ll be getting supervillains asking to man the ticket counter–”

Steve waits. Finally, Stark stops and resumes his place sitting across the table from Steve.

“Okay. Job interview. Right,” he says, “Jarvis darling, bring up Uncle Sam’s resume please.”

A screen on the desk that definitely wasn't there before flashes up his ID photo and his new, twenty-first century data starts scrolling by. Stark raises an eyebrow.

“I might be wrong here, Cap, but last I heard you were born ninety years ago, not in 1985,” he says. Steve shrugs. He’s getting very good at shrugging.

“Part of my agreement with S.H.I.E.L.D. They gave me a new identity.”

Stark gives him a noncommittal hum, eyes flicking up and down Steve’s new and impressive resume.

“Well, I supposed you didn’t have much of one before taking an icy bath,” he replies, “It’s not like many people would hire someone who’s only jobs were killing Nazis and show-dancing.”

“Hey,” Steve begins hotly, but Stark latches on to another part of his data in exclamation.

“Capsicle, what’s the meaning of this?” He all but shouts, swiveling around the screen to show Steve his – name.

“What’s wrong with it?” Steve says angrily. First Fury, now Stark.

Stark’s eyes were comically wide. He laughs a bit, leaning back into the chair and shaking his head at the screen.

“Did someone give you this or did you really make it up yourself? Actually, don’t tell me. I want to live with the idea that you could have chosen any last name and you chose  _ that _ .”

Steve bristles a bit. Stark pauses to take a breath, eyes meeting Steve’s, and calms down a little.

“Sorry, sorry. Just getting used to you A) being alive, and B) asking for a job at the  _ amusement park _ .” He glances through the rest of the resume quickly before waving it away.

“Jarvis, start running a check on S.H.I.E.L.D’s surveillance of this man. They’re not getting their grubby government hands ten feet near my water park. Unless it’s Coulson. He’s the only worker ant of theirs I’ll allow on the slides.”

Steve blinks. “I know Coulson,” He says. Stark laughs.

“I know, he’s only told me about eighty times,” he says, standing up. Steve stands up as well out of habit.

“Congrats, Cap. You’re hired,” Stark announces, holding out his hand. Steve grasps it disbelievingly.

“Just like that?” He asks. The other man shrugs.

“All your data is fake anyway, no point in me hiring you based on that. And if there’s any man I’d trust to make sure little gremlins don’t fall off the water slide towers, it’ll be Captain America."

Steve feels his face warm slightly.

“Thank you, Stark,” He says, voice slightly gravelly. Stark nods and sits back down.

“Please. Call me Tony. The guys are waiting for you at the lobby, they’ll bring you back home. Pepper’ll be by your apartment in a few days with all the information you’re gonna need. I have a feeling you’re going to fit right in. We might also have to check for S.H.I.E.L.D bugs on your person, since I don’t trust those rats,” He rattles off, mind already somewhere else. Steve nods and starts to leave. He pauses in the doorway.

“Tony?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not Captain America.” Not anymore. “I’m St–”

“Yeah, yeah, got it. As your employer, however, I retain the right to call you ‘Capsicle’.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, smile tugging on his lips, and he leaves the freezing office.

* * *

Less than a month later, Steve is ordering three little kids and their harried mother to the side to wait their turn for the Funnel Twist. The sleek mechanical ramp brings up the float, and he efficiently sweeps it into the start of the ride before instructing them to sit on it.

“Do not get out of the float, guys. It’s just as fun to stay safe, okay?” He says to the three kids, who are all vibrating with excitement. They nod eagerly. The mother shoots him a grateful smile, and then looks him up and down.

“You look familiar,” she begins, but the light dictating when Steve lets them go goes green and he pushes them down the slide quickly.

“Have a fun ride!” He yells after their echoing screams.

* * *

Stark Park (terrible name, Tony chose it) is one of America’s biggest water and amusement parks, combining the two in a mini-city of rollercoasters and waterslides. Steve rotates through manning the four biggest slides; either up top splitting the queues up into groups for the ride or down below pressing the GO button when the previous drenched, adrenaline-filled group of friends have cleared out of the pool. It’s not a terribly interesting job, but he gets a decent pay and employee meals are free, which means he can eat as much as he likes in the canteen without thinking about Fury sending him passive aggressive texts about his diet.

“I noticed your mascot is Iron Man,” Steve says in between mouthfuls of some fried rice. They’re eating take-out in the empty boardroom because Tony couldn’t stand watching Steve demolish his hotdog stand anymore. Tony nods, feet up on the table and ankles crossed, mouth full of chow mein.

“Congratulations Cap, you have eyes,” he says, his mouth full. Pepper, who is next to him, frowns at his rudeness. Steve doesn’t really mind it. He knew Howard.

“Tony, don’t talk with your mouth full,” She scolds, before taking a bite of her own fried rice. Tony rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told.

Steve takes another mouthful of his rice.

“Isn’t iron ferrous?” He asks, swallowing.

“Your point?” Tony replies.

“You run a water park whose mascot is a man made out of a metal that rusts.” Tony groans and Pepper stifles her laugh by shoving rice into her mouth.

“Okay, I get that you’re several decades behind the times, grandpa, but really? It’s marketing, Cap. Kids absolutely love m– Iron Man, so it makes total sense. Plus, who’s at the forefront of Stark Industries once you leave the land of make-believe?”

“Me,” Pepper says briskly. Tony nods sagely.

“Yes, her. But also: Iron Man. Everyone knows the suit! It’s iconic design, like a Ford or a Stark Phone. Kids and weird government agencies want to get their grubby paws on it,” Tony rattles on, hands waving dramatically, “And also, the suit’s actually made out of nitinol, but the general public is incompetent most of the time, and I seriously cannot be bothered arguing with the press over the mascot of my water park–”

Steve tunes out Tony’s ramblings and eats more rice. It’s really good. Pepper leans over the table with a twinkle in her eye and whispers, “It’s okay, I think it’s a stupid idea for a mascot too.”

They both snigger into their rice as Tony snaps out of it and demands petulantly to know what they’re both laughing at.

* * *

The first thing that makes him realize that Stark Park may not be all that it seems is the lifeguards at the wave pool.

Steve meets both of them properly a month into his job when the one who consists of nothing but muscles and dopamine sits down in the seat across from him and the whole bench audibly groans. He’s wearing a red cap and red swim trunks and a bright yellow construction worker vest, and if Steve looks like he’s been pumping iron then this guy must be on some hard steroids. He places a bucket of fried chicken in front of him.

“Greetings,” Muscley Blonde says jovially, “I am Thor.”

Steve nods, mouth full of hotdog. He holds his hand out for Thor to shake. Thor clasps and shakes it so enthusiastically Steve can feel the bones disintegrate.

“Steve,” he chokes out. Thor finally lets go, wide sunny grin still on his face. He reminds Steve of an overexcited golden retriever.

“I have heard a great deal of your deeds, Steven,” he says, and Steve feels his stomach drop. Was it so obvious that he was Captain America?

“– Such as the time you rescued the stuck children on the Waterfall Drop. Most admirable.” Thor continues, and a weight is suddenly lifted off Steve’s shoulders. “I had yet to meet a man here who could lift an entire raft of people with such ease.”

Steve turns red briefly.

“I didn’t actually lift them,” he says hurriedly, “I… pushed them. Vertically.”

Thor chuckles and swallows an entire chicken drumstick, bones and all. What the hell.

“Do not worry, Steven,” he says in a low tone that suggested he was trying to whisper, but completely missed the concept behind being able to whisper. “Your secret strength is safe with me.”

Steve is saved from having to answer by another man sliding into the seat next to Thor. If Thor was a golden retriever, this man was a whippet. His hair was long like Thor’s, but jet black and weirdly greasy. He wore the same red trunks with a yellow polo and a yellow tinted visor and  _ was that a fanny pack _ .

“Norns, Thor, you couldn’t have waited ten seconds,” Fanny Pack Man gripes. He’s holding a bucket of chicken that is the same size as Thor’s, if not bigger. Steve cannot even begin to comprehend.

Fanny Pack Man fixes Steve with a piercing glare. He cocks his head slowly.

“Hi,” Steve says. “I’m Steve.”

“Loki,” Fanny Pack Man says curtly. He takes out a drumstick and (thankfully) starts to eat it like a normal person. Thor beams even wider.

“My brother!” He exclaims, thumping Loki on the back and causing him to choke on a piece of chicken.

“Adopted,” Loki says to Steve, eyes doing the faintest hint of a roll. Steve is vaguely impressed by his ability to convey the most complex emotions merely by a twitch of his face.

“Loki, I was just telling Steven here how great it would be for a mor– for a man as strong as him to spar against us sometime!”

“Really?” Loki says incredulously at the same time Steve says, “No, wait, you weren’t telling me that.”

Thor’s face at this point is ninety percent smile.

“Steven, one of these days we shall go to the company gym for some bonding time!” He says merrily. Steve sweats. Loki eats another piece of chicken.

“Sounds like a plan,” He says faintly. Loki snorts and Thor lights up even more.

“I hope you don’t regret that decision, Steven,” Loki says silkily. He puts down another clean chicken bone. When Steve looks over to him, more than half the bucket was gone, the only evidence of any food being the mountain of bones next to him. Seriously, what the hell.

“I think I’ll be fine,” Steve says, pulling together some resolve. At this point, he was pretty sure that Thor was actually that guy in New Mexico which ran into some trouble with a hammer (Thank you Coulson), who was definitely  _ not _ from Earth. However, Steve knew a thing or two about fake identities, so he decides to just let them be. They didn’t seem to wish harm onto anything, as far as he knew. Except for Loki. Never trust anyone who wears a fanny pack.

Thor and Loki exchange glances. Steve fidgets slightly.

“Nice talking to you both,” he says, finishing up his rice and getting up. Thor nods at him and Steve feels as if an ancient power had granted him leave from the banquet table. Loki tears the meat off another chicken bone without breaking eye contact. Creepy.

“We’ll see you around, Steven!” Thor calls after him. Loki nods his assent. “Come by the wave pool sometime.”

“I will,” Steve lies back to them over his shoulder.

* * *

While the removal of S.H.I.E.L.D surveillance as far as Steve knew was welcome, it soon became painfully obvious that Tony was doing some monitoring of his own. Namely, he would sometimes speak into Steve’s earpiece (which was supposed to be for work use only, but Tony built the damn things) conversationally, often causing him to drop the float and glare at the security camera. Despite that, life was pretty good, if he did say so himself.

"Your lifeguards," Steve begins as they sit and eat takeout (Mexican this time) in the boardroom. Tony nods through his taco. 

"What about them?" He asks. Steve stares at his tortilla wrap. 

"They're really interesting."

"I wonder what ever could have happened to give you that idea."

"I ended up eating lunch with them a few weeks b- wait, were you  _ spying  _ on us?"

"I would never," Tony gasps, taco-less hand on his arc reactor like the drama queen he is, "Jarvis, on the other hand..."

Steve gives the ceiling a glare as it says "apologies, Captain."

"Anyway," he continues, definitely not feeling betrayed, "did you know he was Thor? As in, crazy New Mexico hammer guy?"

Tony fixes him with a level stare. "Look me in the eye and ask that again."

"Right. I don't know why I thought you didn’t," Steve says, and takes a bite of his wrap. It's full of beans. Tony takes it upon himself to now divulge Thor's entire story. 

"Yeah, big guy came to the park like. Two months after he fucked off back to Ass Goth or wherever with his snake of a brother in tow. They took a nasty fall off a rainbow bridge or something - not gonna lie, they were injured in ways that would have killed a normal person - but under some good ol' Stark Care(TM) we made them alright. Had some feelings talk and shit too apparently, so now they're good as they could've been," He says in half the amount of time it would have taken a normal person. Steve nods. "His brother Loki has some - maybe all screws loose though, I swear he fucks with me on purpose sometimes."

"Oh yeah," Steve remembers, "he was wearing a fanny pack."

Tony shudders. 

"I’ve never trusted that dude."

* * *

Steve politely doesn't mention to everyone he knows that Thor and Loki are from Asgard. They respectfully do not announce that Steve is Captain America. Well, Loki doesn't announce it. Thor doesn't even seem to know. 

"I hear that you're a national hero," Loki says, suddenly sitting on the barrier next to Steve. Steve jerks and nearly falls down into the knee-high water pool at the top of the slide, having just pushed down a family of five.  

"Jesus Christ," He swears, righting himself. There's a sudden lack of anyone wanting to ride the Vuvuzela. Loki looks very smug, crossed legged and perched on the handrail. 

"What do you want?" Steve asks him, disgruntled. Loki shrugs. 

"Just wanted to let you know I knew," he says, examining his fingernails, "But don't worry - your secret is safe with me, Steven of Midgard."

Steve has no idea how to respond. "Thanks?"

"In return, you do not mention Asgard to my brother," Loki says sharply.  Steve blinks. Loki hops off the handrail and starts prowling around the tower. 

"Some - things have happened that ripped his life apart," he grins slightly at the last word, "But there have also been consequences, ones I did not plan for. After falling off the Bifrost together, we had months, years to talk it out. Of course, time doesn't work where we were, which meant that almost none had passed back here. At this point in time, my brother does not wish to remember our former home, and anyone who happens to remind him of it can expect a lovely present from me," he bares his teeth in what seems to be a smile. Steve feels his blood run cold. 

"Got it, no Asgard, no God things. You have my word," he half-says, half-babbles. Loki manages to make middle-aged beach parent chic look terrifying. 

Loki nods, evidently satisfied. 

"Thank you, Steven. We will see you around," he says, and walks straight into the slide.

"What the fuck," Steve says, rushing to the edge to look at the end of the ride. Loki is standing on the edge of the pool, completely dry. He looks up and waggles his fingers before lazily heading in the direction of the wave pool. 

These damn gods with their freakish teleportation and fanny packs.

* * *

The ramp carrying the floats lets out an awful lurching sound, shrill and piercing, and then grinds to a halt with a shudder. 

Steve pauses midway through helping a little girl into a float. She looks at him quizzically. He glances the conveyor belt and sighs.

"Damn it," he hisses and presses the emergency button. 

Twenty minutes and countless apologies later, Steve stands impatiently at the bottom of the water slide. Thor and Loki are sitting on the pile of floats and eating sandwiches. Not one each, but an honest to god pile of Subway that is disappearing at an alarming rate. Evidently neither of them cared about potential drownings in the wave pool. 

"Stark isn't coming down," Loki says suddenly, and Steve looks up at him. There's nothing in his hands but a footlong. "He's sending a repairman instead."

"When did he tell you that?"

"Just now. I've been talking to him for the last half hour to use his credit card to get these sandwiches," he says, waving his half-eaten footlong at Steve.

"How?" Steve asks, "With ear communication devices?"

Loki rolls his eyes and picks up another sandwich. 

"Clones," He says primly, taking a minuscule bite of a BLT. Thor laughs heartily and shoves bread into his mouth. 

Now that he mentions it, Steve has a sudden suspicion about how they're both just chilling out next to him when they're obviously still on the clock.

If he cranes his neck and looks as far to the left as possible, he can see the lifeguard chair and deck of the wave pool. Sure enough, carbon copies of Thor and Loki are sitting there, watching aptly at the happy swimmers. He turns back to the two brothers.

"Unbelievable," he says with a little jealousy, and receives two innocent looking  _ who, me? _ faces in return. 

"If it makes you feel better, I can only do it for short amounts of time," Loki says, laughter underlying his tone. 

"Make one for me the next time something like this happens at the wave pool and I won't tell Tony you used his credit card to order those sandwiches," he says commandingly, and Loki does do a surprised chuckle at that. 

"It would be my pleasure," he says. At that moment, a harried looking man in a lab coat rushes up holding a massive toolbox. 

"Hey, sorry I'm late," he says. Steve shakes his head quickly. 

"No, not a problem. I'm Steve, the operator of this slide for today. The ramp has given up on us," he says, and holds out his hand. The other man shakes it heartily. 

"Steve, yeah, I've heard about you from Tony. Did you like the Mexican place?" He asks conversationally, putting down the toolbox and opening up the control panel.

"Oh, that was your recommendation?" Steve says in surprise, "It was really good!"

Thor and Loki sit up next to their pile of waxed sandwich wrappers in interest.

"Oh, I'm glad you liked it. I'm Bruce, by the way. I'm like Stark's overqualified plumber."

"Nice to meet you, Bruce," Steve replies, crossing his arms and stepping to the side to let the man work in peace.

They keep up the idle chatter for a while as Bruce fiddles with the controls, with the two Norse gods interjecting every so often. Somewhere along the way, it turns into a discussion about their eccentric boss and the spirit in his ceiling. 

"One time during lunch he forgot I was there and had a ten-minute long conversation with his ceiling," Steve says, drumming his fingers along his arm absently. 

"Oh, Jarvis? Tony told me once that he would have accidentally drank formaldehyde if he hadn't stopped him," Bruce replies, elbow-deep into the gears of the belt. 

"Jarvis is a marvel of technology on Earth," Loki contributes, eating tacos from a container that seemingly appeared from nowhere. 

"This cuisine is really excellent," Thor booms, completely uninterested in roof-inhabiting artificial intelligence. 

A short half hour after he arrives, Bruce removes his arms from inside the machine and starts screwing everything back. 

"Seems to just have been a gear knocked loose," he explains, tightening the panels back up, "Try it out now."

Steve puts in his employee key into the panel and turns. The ramp sputters to life and groans slightly before starting to move. 

"It works," he says with relief. Thor lets out a cheer and shoves Loki off the raft pile. He starts throwing them onto the ramp with evident glee as his brother protests loudly. Steve turns to Bruce, who has finished packing up his toolbox and is about to leave. 

"Hey, thank you so much. You're really good at fixing things!" He says gratefully. Bruce smiles tiredly at him. 

"Thanks. I have seven PhDs," he says, and pads off into the distance as Thor finishes throwing rafts and throws a shrieking Loki into the water instead.

* * *

Pepper finally drags Tony out of the office and into the actual park to do his whole routine manager checkup thing. They both end up in the cafeteria where Steve is on lunch break, and Tony makes a beeline for his table, sliding into the seat before Pepper's quick hands can grab him. 

"Save me, Captain," he whines, shaking Steve by the shoulders. "The mean ginger lady is making me talk to people. Little children.  _ Gremlins _ ." He shudders.

"How terrible your life is," Steve tells him. Tony mock sobs as Pepper walks up to him, thoroughly unimpressed. "Oh, by the way, I met Bruce."

"Bruce? My science boyfriend?" Tony perks up from where he is, slumped onto the table. Steve nods.

"He fixed the ramp on the Drop," he says, and Tony nods in understanding. Pepper pointedly clears her throat behind him and Tony pointedly does not react. 

"Yeah, he's like the second, angrier version of me. What a guy," Tony says reverently. Steve supposes their massive intellectual capabilities help put aside many flaws they could have in their friendship. 

"He doesn't seem like the kind to get angry easily," he replies, taking a bite of a slightly soggy grilled cheese. Tony laughs. 

"Oh, you'd hope so," Tony's 'so' is cut off with a strangled squeak as Pepper, tired of waiting, grabs and lifts him by the collar. "But take me seriously when I say you do not want to make him mad. That's why I have him doing low stress jobs when his genius brain isn't working with me in the labs. He used to run the cafe."

"We don't have a cafe?" Steve calls after him as Pepper drags him away. 

"That's because he got angry at it." Tony yells back.

* * *

“Captain,” Coulson says, standing next to the lifeguard chair in a three-piece and watching with well concealed annoyance as little kids splashed water on his shoes, “Fury has been trying to contact you for three weeks.”

“No running at the wave pool,” Steve yells at a group of preteen boys as they crash past, and then to Coulson, “I have a phone, you know. That he gave me.”

“Yes, but Stark’s done something to it. He can’t text or call it at all.” That explains the sudden lack of complaints about his food choices.

“Remind me to thank Tony. And anyway, can’t he just, I don’t know, come visit me if he wants to have a chat so badly? It’s not like my house has moved off the map,” he tells Coulson, who shifts to look up at him with an expression torn between exasperation and ingrained admiration.

“Your electronic lock has been overridden. No codes or fingerprints S.H.I.E.L.D has tried can unlock it, and every time we hack it they just change again,” Coulson says tiredly, and this time Steve tears his eyes away from the daredevil children to frown at him.

“What d’you mean? I’ve been able to open it just fine with my fingerprint or my access code,” he says bemusedly, “Also, haven’t you guys heard of waiting on the doorstep? Or knocking? Jesus, you don’t have to ambush me in my own home.”

Coulson looks uncomfortable. “Fury likes the air of mystery.”

“So he refuses to meet me like a normal person when Tony screws with his ability to be a cryptid.”

“Er, yes. That’s about it,” Coulson says, then “Anyway, you’re due in to S.H.I.E.L.D for testing soon. Will Wednesday at 0800 work?”

Steve waves to the returning Thor and Loki, their arms laden with cafeteria chicken, and nods to Coulson.

“Sounds good. Would you like some chicken? We’re having a picnic with Tony in about fifteen minutes.”

Coulson looks down at his slightly damp ankles.

“Yeah, why not.”

“I’m just saying,” Tony says to Coulson as they all sit in a neat circle sharing an obscene amount of chicken, “Fury shouldn’t have put electronic locks on Steve’s door if he knew that I was his employer.”

Coulson glances warily at Thor inhaling a bucket of drumsticks and says, “I think he’s angrier at what you did to Cap’s phone.”

“Thank you,” Steve whispers to Tony, who waves it off good-naturedly. Coulson looks as if he’s going to make a scathing remark, but he glances at Steve and decides to eat his food instead.

“I didn’t do anything to his phone,” Tony lies smoothly. He’s really good at denying things at face value. Coulson fixes him with a very unimpressed stare.

“Just let him contact Cap somehow, will you? I’ve got enough to deal with that doesn’t have to do with the director of S.H.I.E.L.D throwing tantrums when his phone won’t send texts,” Coulson pleads. To any passerby, he would have just sounded thoroughly bored. There’s a pause in conversation as Tony pretends to mull over his response, although anyone with half a brain cell would know that _ inconveniencing Fury  _ would triumph over  _ potential legal action threatened _ any day when it came to Tony Stark.

“Maybe he should try a carrier pigeon,” Thor offers helpfully in the following silence.

* * *

Steve gets home, unlocks his door with ease, and puts away his bag. He turns on his laptop and scrolls idly on Pinterest for a while, and then hesitates. Tony had said something about electronic locks. Electronics. Robots. Artificial Intelligence.

Ceiling AIs.

“Jarvis?” He calls out into his apartment. A ringing silence greets him and Steve furrows his brows, feeling stupid. He goes back to scrolling.

A few minutes later, his phone rings. It’s Tony.

“Jarvis told me we’ve been found out. Congratulations, you’re smart. Use him as you wish,” he says, about to hang up when Steve stops him.

“Wait, that’s all you have to say? You’re going to install your robot into my ceiling where he can effectively spy on me and when I catch you out you’re just going to act as if it’s doing me a favour?” Steve says in disbelief. Tony sighs audibly.

“He’s just there to keep S.H.I.E.L.D out and maybe dim your lights when you fall asleep with the TV on, jeez. I’m not interested in keeping tabs on you 24/7, – which by the way, is definitely verging on stalking regardless of what the little rats at S.H.I.E.L.D say – I’m just watching out for my employees. And fucking with Fury. Mostly fucking with Fury. He’s already deactivated four audio bugs anyway, since you don’t have cameras installed. But if you want him out, I can remotely deactivate him – it’s your loss,” Tony says, and Steve can hear his shrug. He deflates a bit.

“Fine,” he says, “Sorry, Tony. I got a bit defensive.”

“Understandable,” Tony replies, “I gotta go. Enjoy your new butler, Capsicle.”

Steve listens to the dial tone for a moment, and then tentatively says “Jarvis?” again.

“Yes, Captain?” a disembodied voice says smoothly, and Steve jumps slightly.

“Uh, hello. You can call me Steve.”

“Of course.”

“Do. Do I just talk to you? Like this?” Steve conveys awkwardly between him and the empty space in front of him despite Jarvis not being able to see it.

“Yes. You can ask me anything and I will attempt to assist you within my capabilities. I can help you search of information, order items or food online, etcetera.” A pause. “Or I could dim your lights.”

Who knew A.I.s were capable of sarcasm.

“Huh,” Steve mumbles, looking at his phone, “Coulson said they weren’t  _ that _ smart yet.”

“That’s because they weren’t developed by Mr. Stark, Steve.” Jarvis says patiently. This was going to take a while to get used to.

* * *

“Tony want to know if Director Fury has figured a way around his – quote, ‘Electronic Great Wall of China’, unquote,” Steve tells Coulson conversationally as the other man hovers over his hospital bed like a worried mother hen, watching nurses drain what seems like pints of blood out of him. “Can you stop hovering please?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Coulson says stepping a fraction of a step back, staring as the nurses unhook the bags of blood for testing and replace them with something that goes  _ into _ Steve, which is not incredibly pleasant and ends up sending him into a thrashing fever fit after eight minutes of letting the medication pump into his system.

“Fuck,” Coulson hisses, pressing a button that emits a high-pitched beep, and Steve groans and grabs at his head deliriously. There’s a dull prick of pain on his right arm, and either Coulson has mastered the art of creating clones, or Steve is going mad.

He blacks out a minute later.

“-ey. Hey.” A voice calls faintly from somewhere to his right, and Steve forces his eyelids open. They feel like lead. An unfamiliar man is standing over him, head cocked. His hair is cropped short and he’s in standard S.H.I.E.L.D gear.

“Oh, great,” the S.H.I.E.L.D agent says with relief, “You’re awake. Coulson was ready to murder someone,” he adds, straightening up and dropping into a chair. He fiddles with his left ear a bit. Steve, through his haze, can make out a communication device. Steve glances down at himself. There’s a gash in his right arm where he must have torn out the needle which is already closing up.

“He’s awake and alive,” the agent says to no one in particular.

Barely forty seconds later, Coulson bursts in with two nurses. He strides over to Steve’s side and picks up his hand, almost cradling it as the nurses flutter around and check his vitals.

“How are you feeling?” He asks curtly, but there’s a slight twitch of worry in his left eye. Steve can’t help but smile a little bit at how motherly Coulson was.

“A bit dizzy,” he replies, “What was that stuff?”

“Horse tranquilizer.”

“Horse – what?”

The agent gets up and walks over to stand next to Coulson, looking at Steve curiously.

“A horse tranquilizer mixed with a bunch of toxins,” he clarifies, looking impressed. Steve stares at them both.

“Sorry, are you trying to  _ murder _ me, or run scientific experiments?” He says with disbelief. Coulson opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. The agent shrugs and fiddles with his ear.

“They’re just testing the extent to which the serum protects you. Anyone else would have died within the first eighty seconds, give or take. It took you eight minutes to even feel the effects. I’d say you’re gonna be fine,” he says flippantly, as if they hadn’t just tried to poison Steve in the name of science and the greater good.

“Right,” he says, because S.H.I.E.L.D is a nightmare, “Can I leave now?”

* * *

A reusable shopping bag full of sushi rolls in hand, Steve opens the boardroom door and gets a front row seat to a heated argument between Tony and Pepper about birds.

“Jesus, you guys,” he groans and sets the bag down onto the table. They both shut up and sit down, but instead of sitting next to Tony and facing Steve like she normally does, Pepper stalks around and sits next to Steve. Tony gapes at her for a split second, before suddenly getting up and striding around the table to sit on the other side of Steve.

“Tony, don’t be ridiculous. We can’t all sit on the same side,” Pepper all but growls at him, leaning forward on the table to see him across Steve. Tony sneers back.

“Move then. Maybe I just wanted to sit next to Steve today.”

“You got up from your seat when you saw me sit down.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

“Did n–”

“Can someone explain to me what is going on between you two?” Steve interrupts. This leads to the petty argument stopping, but has the unexpected side effect of having the full, piercing attention of both Tony Stark and Pepper Potts trained on him. He shifts awkwardly and takes a container of sushi from the bag.

“Can we just talk this out over lunch?”

* * *

They were arguing about the new bird and dolphin show.

“No, I’m not complaining about the show itself,” Tony explains angrily, “I’m complaining about who Pepper hired to run them!”

Pepper sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “They were the most qualified, Tony. There is nothing wrong with the staffing decisions made! Both of them passed every single required check and did the interviews with great expertise.”

“Because they’re  _ spies _ , Pepper,” Tony whines through a chunk of tuna roll in his mouth, “This park is supposed to be a no S.H.I.E.L.D zone for good fucking reason, and you let the Murder Twins just stroll in here and get  _ paid _ to do so!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. How did they pass the checks then if they’re called the Murder Twins?” Steve asks. Pepper sighs.

“Classified files,” She explains, “As a standard employing market, we aren’t allowed to use Jarvis to run any background checks. We have to use normal systems.”

“Which is bullshit,” Tony begins, and Pepper glares at him, “because now there are two S.H.I.E.L.D agents in my fucking water park that I have to keep for at least six months!”

“They aren’t so bad, Tony,” Pepper yells, voice raising exponentially, “Maybe if you stopped being so angry at Director Fury all the time, you wouldn’t be so fucking childish!”

Steve flinches a bit. Pepper never swore. Even Tony stops and calms down a little, fixing her with a concerned look. She looks at them both, heaving slightly, before sighing.

“Just give them a chance, Tony. This park isn’t just a place for you to be petty at S.H.I.E.L.D, it’s an entertainment zone that needs good employees to run smoothly. It’s six months. You can deal with it,” She says, closing her half-eaten sushi container and picking up her handbag. Tony stands up too, and starts to open his mouth but Pepper raises her finger and his mouth snaps shut.

“Not now, Tony. I’ve got your company to run,” She says stoically, and leaves the board room.

Tony slumps back into the seat next to Steve and stares at his sushi morosely.

“I fucked up,” he says to it, and Steve gives him a sympathetic pat. “I don’t want those fuckers in my park, but Pepper’s done all this for it.” Steve nods. Current events have made his slight disdain for S.H.I.E.L.D slightly stronger. But Tony’s running a business here, and Steve sometimes has a mind outside of punching his problems.

“Just try it out,” He says cautiously. Tony doesn’t reply verbally, just does a slow nod and keeps staring at the table. A short, awkward silence stretches out.

“Do – Do you want to go and sit back on the other s–?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry.”

* * *

The Murder Twins turn out to be A) not twins, and B) not that murderous.

“Hey, big guy,” a small redhead says cheekily as she leans on the counter where Steve is ordering a second order of fried rice. Her hair is short-ish and bouncy, clipped up into a neat twist on the top of her head. She’s wearing a simple white one-piece with the Stark Park logo on them and red swim shorts – both of which seem to fit her incredibly well – as well as a black belt pouch of some sort that sits on her right hip.

“Hello yourself,” Steve replies, turning to look at her. She doesn’t reply, too busy scanning the menu board.

“The rice is good,” Steve finds himself saying involuntarily, and she looks at him in surprise.

“Oh,” she says, smile curling on her lips, “Well, I trust your judgement.” She orders the same when the man running the canteen comes back with Steve’s plate. Steve nods, says “I’ll be sitting over there if you want to join,” and walks to his usual corner table.

Small Redhead sits across from him two minutes later with a decent amount of rice on her plate. She snaps apart a pair of wooden chopsticks, and starts to efficiently pick up and eat her meal as if she was using a spoon. Steve is torn between being terrified and in awe.

“This  _ is _ really good,” she says appreciatively, and Steve nods eagerly. He really likes the rice here. Redhead smiles at him.

“Natasha.” She says, extending her hand. Steve shakes it. “And you are?”

“Steve,” he tells her, and something fleeting flashes in her eyes, almost too fast for Steve to notice, but when he focuses there’s nothing there but the same introductory happiness.

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” she smiles, and it’s only mildly unsettling.

“Likewise,” he replies.

They spend lunch talking about idle things. Natasha’s new – only been working a week – and she takes care of the aquarium and outdoor show arena. Turns out she trains dolphins for the new Stark Park attraction, and is going to do her first show two weeks from today.

“Whoa, that’s so cool,” Steve exclaims, “I’ll try see if I can get another guy to cover my shift to come see it.” Natasha laughs bashfully.

“Yeah, I’m excited too. The guy training the birds for the show as well is one of my best friends; we were so lucky that Mrs. Potts hired both of us together!” She laughs infectiously. Steve blinks, putting two and two together suddenly.

“Oh,” he says.

If Natasha notices anything off after he makes that realization, she doesn’t tell him. They finish lunch and head off in their separate directions with promises to come and visit each other sometime. Natasha tells him she’ll introduce him to her best friend, some guy called Clint. Steve offers to bring her to the wave pool sometime. It’s all very polite.

As she’s walking away, Steve notices a glint in her hair. His eyesight had improved exponentially because – well, 1940s steroids – so he squints a little and unfortunately catches sight of a thin dagger buried in the red, bouncy curls.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers to himself. Natasha turns around suddenly enough to make him jump, catches his eye knowingly, and winks before continuing on her way.

Okay. So maybe a little bit murderous.

* * *

Steve meets the second half of the Murder Twins at Natasha’s show. Tony had been waiting for him impatiently at the clock-in station, barely letting Steve scan his employee I.D before dragging him to a corner.

“You’re coming with me to the opening of the show arena,” he says, and Steve frowns at him.

“What about Pepper?”

“She’s coming too, obviously. I just need to hide behind all your tall blondeness when she tries to get me to meet Bonnie and Clyde,” Tony mutters, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, “Show’s in one hour. I already got Thor to cover you.”

“Fine,” Steve replies, “Let me get changed.”

* * *

The show is nothing short of spectacular.

Natasha coordinates the four dolphins with scary efficiency and precision, often intertwining herself into the tricks as well. Even Tony, who starts out scowling with his arms crossed, lets out a surprised whoop of support when she does a particularly impressive double back flip into the pool in sync with two other dolphins. Steve, Pepper, and the rest of the packed audience stands cheer. Natasha stands up on the back of the other two dolphins with a bright smile on her pretty face, waving and bowing to the audience as they bring her around the pool. They bring her to the shore, and she picks up a slim microphone.

“Thank you all!” She says, giggling into the mic and waving still. The cheers and applause grows.

“And now,” Natasha says with just the right amount of dramatic flair, “I would like to welcome our resident self-proclaimed bird whisperer, Hawkeye!”

Cheers erupt around the arena. Tony claps as well.

“That was great, even for products of S.H.I.E.L.D,” he yells to Steve over the applause, and Pepper shouts “I told you so!” into his ear.

Slowly, the applause dies down as nothing happens. Natasha’s still on stage, but she doesn’t look worried. Soon, murmuring starts amongst the audience. Pepper’s face crumples with worry.

“Oh no,” she mumbles, “Is there something wrong?”

Steve is halfway to standing up when Natasha puts down the mic and does a weird symbol with both her hands at a spot at the back of the audience. A hushed silence follows.

Then, a row of birds swoop low over the audience in a perfect line, causing shrieks of surprise and the applause to start up again. They land in a heart around Natasha, who laughs. Some people go ‘awww’ at the gesture. Pepper looks relieved.

“Aw, ‘Tasha, thanks for the introduction!” A drawling voice announces from the speakers. It’s oddly familiar to Steve, but he can’t quite place it. A man dressed in a black combat vest over a white polo walks leisurely down the left aisle of the arena, a Harris Hawk perched alertly on his shoulder. A bow and quiver of sleek, red arrows are attached to his vest, slung across his back, and his arm guards are distinctly Iron Man themed. The audience cheers as he saunters down to the front, and when he reaches the middle he gestures casually in the air and the bird break formation from around Natasha to sit in a neat row on the pool barrier. He has close cropped hair. Steve frowns.

“He looks really familiar,” he tells Tony.

“Shut up, Grandpa Frisbee. I wanna see what the bird man is going to do,” Tony hisses, elbowing him in the side.

* * *

 

After the show, Tony pretends to be grudgingly impressed and flippant at both Natasha and Clint.

“It was adequate,” he grumbles, and they both nod solemnly despite everyone present knowing that they had put on one of the most jaw-dropping performances in water park attraction history.

“We’ll improve it next time,” Natasha says with utmost seriousness. Tony nods, grunts a bit, and then stalks off. Pepper smiles at them and thanks them for the incredible show for the fifth time before rushing off to reprimand Tony. Which leaves Steve standing awkwardly with the two.

“Don’t listen to Tony. He’s just being petty. You guys are amazing,” he tells them, and they smile at him. It’s a lot more unsettling than he would have liked.

“Thanks for the encouragement, Steve,” Clint says, absently stroking the hawk preening on his shoulder. Natasha nods. Steve frowns at him. He doesn’t remember introducing himself.

“Have we met before?” he says, and Clint pauses in his affectionate petting.

“Nope. Never seen you in my life,” he replies after a beat. Steve narrows his eyes at him.

“I think we have. You were at S.H.I.E.L.D last week. When they tried to kill me with sedatives meant for horses.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clint shrugs, obviously lying.

“What’s a shield?” Natasha says innocently.

“Never mind,” Steve sighs, “Nice to see you again, Natasha. Nice to meet you for the very first time, Clint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed chapter 1!! Stay tuned for all the updates over the next two days ✌️kudos and comments are always appreciated!!!
> 
> reblog whatthefoucault's art [here!](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/post/178630661841/behold-the-stylishly-outfitted-brothers-from)
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here!](http://tvheit.tumblr.com)


	2. Old Friends, Sleepovers, and Unconventional Solutions to Insignificant Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ~~new~~ old (?) face makes an appearance, everything is not as it seems, and Tony comes to terms with the fact that he's accidentally formed a superhero team

Thor takes to the dolphins like a duck to water.

“Does he ever get tired of staring at them?” Tony asks, watching Thor watch the dolphins raptly as they swim in circles. They’re having another picnic, this time in the stands of the show arena. Loki lets out a long-suffering sigh and bites into his egg sandwich.

“He’s always had a fascination with slippery animals,” he mutters, staring with slight exasperation at his brother.

“Must be why he likes you so much,” Clint snipes from next to Steve. Loki whips around to glare at him, hackles raised, and Steve immediately drags himself between them.

“No cat fights,” he commands, and Clint stops tensing reluctantly. Loki growls slightly before going back to his sandwich. Steve sighs. He feels like a mom.

Loki and Clint did not get along. If Thor and the dolphins forged an immediate lifelong bond, Loki and Clint had formed an immediate lifelong hatred. Which was mostly due to a very unfortunate silent prank war that escalated into an after-hours fist fight in the parking lot that lasted until Thor and Steve could separate them. Both of them still insist that the other started it.

Now, Clint eats his sandwich and gives the crusts to his hawk, who is aptly named Legolas. Natasha signs something at him with a frown and he shrugs. Clint’s hard of hearing – completely deaf in his right ear and partially in his left. He wears a S.H.I.E.L.D issued ear implant in his slightly okay one and fiddles with it when he’s bored.

“I can speak alright since I lost my hearing just recently; maybe two or three years ago,” he told them one lunch, “Natasha and I then learnt ASL for convenience and because it looks cool, but one of my friends still helps me with making sure that my voice stays in use.”  _ For covert missions for secret government spy agencies _ , he doesn’t add.

Thor furrowed his brows slightly, and then started to do something with his hands. Clint stared at him fumble slightly through some motions, before he broke out into a smile.

“Oh, no fuckin’ way!” He grinned at Thor, “You can sign?”

“To an extent, yes. Signing where I come from is a bit different,” Thor said with a proud smile.

“Where do you come from?” Clint asked. Thor froze. Loki did too, and started hissing in some foreign tongue at his brother.

“Um. You would not have heard of it,” Thor said quickly, and Steve felt vaguely sorry for him. Clint is S.H.I.E.L.D. There’s a hundred percent chance he knew who Thor is.

“Try me.”

“We are from –” Thor glanced around with some panic, “Uh, A– a place called. Alaska.”

“Alaska,” Clint repeated, “As in, that state that should be a part of Canada but is still very much a part of America.”

“Yes,” Thor said faintly as Loki hissed “ _ No _ ,” and shoved a mouthful of samosas into Thor’s mouth.

“We’re actually from a small town in Norway,” he said smoothly as his brother choked behind him. “Our father was a horrible old man with one eye and hearing loss. We abandoned him in a nursing home in Australia and moved to the other side of the world.”

“Right. Deaf father in Australia.” Clint had said, and dropped the subject.

Back in the present, Steve listens absently as Tony and Loki have an animated discussion full of sniping (Loki) and sass (Tony) about advancements in technology. Legolas gulps down another piece of crust, and Natasha grabs the pile of bread away from Clint and signs something with an annoyed face while saying the words “bread” and “bad”. Clint grumbles “yes, mother,” and stops feeding a petulant Legolas his leftovers. Thor, evidently bored of just simply watching the dolphins swim, chucks off his fluorescent construction vest and leaps over the barrier into the show pool with a splash.

Through the chaos that follows (Loki getting up and running down to his idiot brother while growling foreign expletives, Tony yelling in surprise, and Clint bursting into hysterics), Bruce appears, slightly dusty with oil stains on his lab coat, his massive toolbox on one arm and a really cute wicker picnic basket on the other. He stops behind the group and surveys the sight before him with some concern.

“What is going on here?” He asks Steve, but then stops him just as he opens his mouth to answer. “Wait no, don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know. Care for more sandwiches?”

* * *

“Clint called you Carol today,” Steve says, bare feet pounding on the treadmill. Coulson hums, marks something on a clipboard, and turns the speed up from 40 miles to 45. Steve isn’t even sweating. He almost feels sorry for the machine.

“Did he now.”

“Yeah. Why is S.H.I.E.L.D sending agents into the park?” Coulson frowns at the heartbeat monitor display next to them both. Marks something else down on his board.

“What agents?”

“Clint and Natasha. One is a redhead and the other one called you Carol.”

“I don’t know who those people are,” he replies, focusing intently on his clipboard. Steve gives up and forces the treadmill speed up to 60 miles.

* * *

“Any luck?” Tony says, his voice tinny and distant. Steve shakes his head despite Tony being able to see the motion through the phone.

“Nothing. Coulson wouldn’t crack,” he says, running a hand through his hair and peering into his refrigerator. It looks like time to take a trip down to the store. Jarvis would be more than happy to order in food for him, but Steve likes the feel of the supermarket. There’s something about bright aisles and muffled cheery music that gets him. Tony groans into his ear.

“How about Fury? Haven’t you seen him yet?”

Steve shakes his head again redundantly. “You did something to my phone and locks, remember? He’s giving me the cold shoulder instead of just coming down a few stories to say hello.”

“Oh, right,” Tony says, chuckling, “What an idiot.”

“Watch your fucking language,” Steve says, putting on his coat. It’s getting cool, which means shorter hours for the water park. Tony does a derisive snort into his ear.

“Not my fault, if he can’t even figure out what I did.”

“Actually, what  _ did _ you do? Automatically transfer his call to another line? Changed my number? Erased my data from the S.H.I.E.L.D phonebook?” Steve asks, pressing the phone between his face and shoulder when he slips on his shoes. He checks that he has his wallet. Turns the lights off and closes the door.

“None of the above,” Tony grins, “I just blocked his contact.”

* * *

The store is relatively empty when Steve pulls up to it at around seven in the evening. He parks his bike quickly to the side and jogs inside, the cooler autumn air already starting to bite. Inside, Beyoncé’s  _ Drunk in Love  _ plays through the speakers. He heads straight for the canned foods aisle, intent on buying cans of Spam and some baked beans.

As he picks up his shopping and puts it into his basket, he sees another motorbike pull up outside. A man wearing a Dodgers baseball cap gets off. His long hair falls into his face. Steve pauses, intuitive alarms blaring. He does a quick scan of what he can see; the store is empty save for one bored looking cashier who is staring dully at their phone screen. The automatic doors open and the man walks in. He’s wearing a black face mask and has on a dull colored jacket and gloves. He pauses, scans the store, and then locks his eyes on Steve. And stares.

Steve slowly puts down his basket, not breaking eye contact. The man watches him unblinkingly. He slowly starts to back away, and the man slowly starts forward. Right. He’s here for him, then.

“Listen,” Steve says, “I don’t want to figh–”

The man reaches out with his left arm and grabs the metal bar from the cashier counter, wrenching it out swiftly as the metal shrieks under his grip. The teen looks up from their phone in shock and screams, dropping the device and running out. The man ignores them. Metal bar in hand, he heads towards Steve, quickening his pace.

“Fuck, dude!” Steve shouts and starts running. The masked man leaps over the sauces aisle, landing on him. They go down in a rough tumble, and Steve gets hit a few solid times with the bar before throwing the other guy off into a shelf of tuna cans.

“Can we talk this out?” He yells as the man gets up, unfazed, and drives the metal bar through the space that Steve’s head had been in three seconds ago.

Negotiation tactics failed and unable to see a way out, Steve does what he does best. Punches his problem.

The other guy grunts, and they start really decking it out. Steve gives him a swift kick to the solar plexus, and the man gives him a mean uppercut in return. The crumpled metal bar clatters to the ground, forgotten. Steve pulls all his weight and throws himself into a right hook, but the man’s hand shoots up and grabs it. Hard.

Steve grits his teeth, trying to wrench his fist out of the iron grip of the other man. He stands up slowly, fixing Steve with haunting blue eyes and twists his wrists. Steve howls as his arm is torn out of its socket, falling on the floor in pain.

“If you’re from S.H.I.E.L.D, can you tell Fury that this isn’t fucking funny?” He gasps out at the man, who grabs the front of his shirt with his other arm, hauling him up. Steve watches the man pause, and gives him a few seconds to digest the words before quickly grabbing his neck and flipping them onto the ground.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” He hisses, his full body weight pinning the other man down. With his right arm rendered useless, Steve isn’t sure how long he’d be able to resist the struggling under him. With his good hand, he gives the other man a few good punches to the jaw, shifting his weight to hold down the man’s left arm, which, unsurprisingly, seems like the limb most likely to kill him. After a grueling twenty seconds, Steve manages to unclip the mask, but the man thrashes under him, grabs the back of his jacket and throws him into the frozen food freezers. The doors crack under the impact, and Steve feels the rush of cold air. He blindly grabs the first solid thing he puts his hands on and holds it up in front of him defensively. It turns out to be a frozen pizza. The other man stumbles to his feet, cap and mask knocked off of him. His long, dirty hair obscures his face as his coughs up blood into the aisle.

“I’m not gonna ask again.” Steve growls, holding the frozen pizza up as if it was made out of something sturdier than cardboard and cheese, “Who the  _ fuck _ are y–” The words die on his lips as the man turns to face him, staring straight into his eyes with the same hauntingly blank look. He flexes his left fingers experimentally. Steve gapes openly at him.

“Bucky?” He says.

"Who the hell is that?" James Buchanan  _ goddamn _ Barnes in the fucking flesh replies, and rips a shelf off the chips aisle. Cheezel value packs scatter across the floor. 

Steve throws the pizza at him and scrambles for the exit. Bucky bats the dough shield to the side and charges after him with the shelf. They skid down the linoleum floor, Steve's arm dangling uselessly as he vaults the counter and through the opening automatic doors. He's starting his motorcycle twelve seconds later when the sound of shattering glass and a triggered alarm causes him to look back at his supposedly dead best friend. 

Bucky's walking towards him menacingly, all dead eyed. He's ditched the shelf and picked up what looks like a two-dollar sashimi knife. The jacket he was wearing has been abandoned completely, exposing a glinting, metal arm under his ratty t-shirt.

"What the fuck," Steve whispers under his breath, but then Bucky starts to run towards him, knife held menacingly outward, so Steve forces his bike engine to life and guns it the hell out of there.

* * *

Two minutes later, he's managed to stuff the emergency S.H.I.E.L.D communication device precariously into his ear while steering the bike one-handed. Coulson answers almost immediately to his screamed " _ COULSON.”  _ Steve is ninety percent sure he has him on speed-dial.

"Steve, what’s going on?"

"It's a long story, but my childhood best friend just tried to kill me and now I'm driving a motorcycle one-handed trying to get away from him and his stolen knife," Steve half-yells, twisting through the twilight traffic.

"What?" Coulson says, and Steve can hear the faint bark of orders in the background. The device slips dangerously and Steve almost crashes into a tree trying to stuff it back in. "I might need some clarification, because last I checked everyone from the forties are either dead or in retirement homes."

"Very funny," Steve says. "Hilarious, Coulson, really, you should try comedy if being a top-secret government official doesn't work out. Bucky Barnes is  _ alive _ ." He swerves his motorbike past a trailer and glances into his mirror just in time to see the man himself closing in on him with his own bike.

"Shit!" Steve hisses, and presses on the gas. "Coulson, he's following me, what do I do, what do I do?"

"Firstly, stop panicking," Coulson says quickly into his ear. 

"I'm not panicking," Steve says, panicking. 

"You're starting to hyperventilate," Coulson points out. Steve barks out a shaky laugh. 

"My best friend, who I saw fall off a fucking train to an icy death seventy years ago, turns out to be not only alive, but greets me by breaking my arm, tries to kill me in the canned food aisle on a weekday, oh, and did I mention he’s got a  _ metal fucking arm _ ?" Steve shouts, turning down a less busy street, Bucky still on his tail like some sort of ghost from the war-torn battlefield past, "Sorry for not being just peachy right now!!"

Coulson swears under his breath. 

"Do not go home," he orders. "Try lose him on the streets and then ditch the bike."

Steve glances into the mirror, and then does a particularly impressive swerve around a slow trailer, managing to lose Bucky for the moment. Coulson’s voice echoes faintly in his ear, saying something about getting him to a safe house, but Steve knows Bucky, knows that he would just chase and chase until he was dead. The only way he had any chance of speaking to Bucky without A), being murdered or B) grievously injured, was to subdue him. Preferably with man power. And some of those horse tranquilizers.

"I'm going to S.H.I.E.L.D," Steve replies, cutting off Coulson’s ramblings. 

“What? No, you’re not.”

"Yes I am. I’m going to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

No- Steve, don't you dare–"

"Too late."

Steve crashes his motorcycle right into S.H.I.E.L.D's nice, modern lobby. Rolls off the upturned bike (which skids towards the far wall and crumples with a mighty crash) and shakes off the shattered glass shards awkwardly. The rev of a motorcycle can be heard in the near distance, which means Steve is going have to run.

“Hey, what the fuck,” a voice sounds from the reception. Steve whips his head around so fast something cricks in his neck. Ow.

A handsome, dark-skinned man sits up, head and shoulders just visible over S.H.I.E.L.D’s stupidly high granite countertop. He stares disbelievingly at the mess of glass on the floor, then to the mangled bike, and then at an equally mangled Steve.

“I thought everyone had gone home,” Steve says, because it’s true. That, or for Coulson to have mobilised S.T.R.I.K.E. to greet him in the 0.3 seconds between him hanging up and crashing into the lobby, he doesn’t add. 

“This is a government intelligence agency, idiot! There’s people here at all times!” The receptionist yells, throwing his hands up in the air. He fixes Steve with some sort of exasperation that seems to exude  _ My God, the _ _ audacity of this bitch. _ Steve blinks, about to apologize when he hears the engine get worryingly closer.

“Listen, you have to get out of here,” he says in his best placating voice. The receptionist raises a very well maintained eyebrow of doubt. “I’m being chased.”

“And you came to S.H.I.E.L.D? What were you expecting, an assembled group of agents with police barriers to greet you?” The motorcycle gets pointedly louder. Steve pointedly pretends that he wasn’t expecting exactly that. Receptionist looks over at the jagged hole in one of the glass panels. Looks back at Steve. Blinks a few times. Then, realization dawns on his face and he sighs.

“Fuck’s sake. You’re Captain America.”

“Hello,” Steve replies, giving him a sheepish wave with his not-destroyed arm.

“You’re supposed to be dead in the Arctic.”

“Well, I’m alive. Surprise?” The receptionist manages to look both awed and extremely unimpressed at the same time.

“Get in the back,” he finally says, pulling out a pistol from under the desk, “Fire escape stairs, two floors down. Take a left and then a right. Last door in the hallway. Code is 2278246. You should find what you’re looking for there. I’ll cover you.”

“I’m not looking for anything,” Steve says stubbornly, because hell if he’s going to let some civilian die, “You have to leave before you get hurt. The guy chasing me is strong.”

The receptionist cocks his pistol with exaggerated annoyance, “Well, if  _ Captain America _ says so–“

Three things happen at once:

Bucky’s motorbike crashes into the lobby.

Steve runs to cover the receptionist.

The receptionist raises his gun and shoots Bucky in both knees.

Bucky falls off the bike onto the floor and Steve stops mid-reach for the back of the receptionist’s shirt. The sashimi knife clatters across the marble tiles and clinks against a couch leg. Said receptionist turns around and gives him another unimpressed glare.

“I  _ said _ I’ll cover you. Why are you still here?”

Steve stares at Bucky, bug-eyed, before swinging his disbelieving stare onto the receptionist. “You just shot my best friend! Twice!”

“Wh– I thought you said you were getting chased! And that he was strong!”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s hostile!”

“He has a  _ metal arm _ !”

“You shot him!” Steve yells, about to start gesticulating when Bucky gives a low groan, reaching for the knife. Receptionist whirls around and shoots so close to his flesh hand that it grazes his pinky. Bucky yelps.

Steve hisses and tries to grab the gun out of the unamused receptionist’s hands, attempting to prevent any more unnecessary bullet holes in Bucky.  _ “Will you stop shooting my best friend?” _

_ “He’s going to kill you, white man!”  _ The receptionist hisses back. Steve grips the gun a little too hard and feels the metal give way slightly.

“He hasn’t done anything yet!”

“He hasn’t – have you _ seen _ your arm?” Steve’s grip goes slack and the receptionist manages to yank the pistol out of reach of Steve. He shoves the slightly crooked gun into his back pocket.

“Point taken,” Steve says awkwardly. Bucky inches towards the knife. The man takes out his gun again and shoots the floor right in front of him. He stills immediately. Handsome Receptionist groans.

“Why me,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone. “Here I was. Eating pistachios. Having a nice night.”

“I’m sorry?” Steve tries. The other man nods vaguely.

“Just go and get your shit,” he says, gun loosely trained on Bucky. “We’ll be right here waiting.”

Steve nods gratefully. “Thank you,” he says, trailing off. Receptionist gives him a gap-toothed smile.

“I’m Sam Wilson.”

“Sam. I’m Steve.”

“Yes, I know. Now go before he kills us both, white m– no, that was a joke, he’s not going to kill me, stop looking at me like that – for fucks sake, just _ leave. _ ”

* * *

After they can no longer hear Steve’s thundering footsteps in the distance, Sam looks back at the man cautiously.

“Hey dude,” he calls out, still safely behind the granite counter. He hears a grunt in response. Sam cranes his neck to look at the man sprawled out on the floor.

“Sorry for shooting you,” he says, relaxing a bit. “But you were kinda about to murder a national icon. Who should be dead, technically, but guess S.H.I.E.L.D’s been keeping secrets again. No fucking surprise there. Also, what’s this whole best friend thing he keeps going on about?” The man is on his stomach, faced away from him. He grunts again.

“…Right,” Sam says. A very long minute passes, where it becomes apparent that the man is content with bleeding out peacefully in S.H.I.E.L.D’s tasteful lobby. If it wasn’t for his ragged breathing, Sam would have thought that he’d gone to sleep.

“Listen, buddy, your friend is going to come back soon, possibly with backup. You seem like a smart dude, why’d you attack him? He steal your girlfriend or something?”

At that, the man barks a laugh and coughs up some blood. With some evident difficulty, he drags his head around to face Sam, haunted blue eyes hiding behind a curtain of greasy matted hair.

“He couldn’t if he tried,” he rasps, before furrowing his brow in confusion.

“He what?” Sam says. The man opens his mouth, closes it again, brows knitting together in frustration.

“I don’t- I don’t know,” he growls, and uses his metal arm to push himself upright. Sam tightens his grip on the trigger, but the man doesn’t seem interested in doing anything other than sit upright in a puddle of his own blood.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Sam says soothingly, his inner VA counsellor leaking out against his own will, “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“Not don’t,” the man says, and when he looks at Sam he looks almost helpless, if a possible homicidal maniac with an honest-to-god metal arm could be considered helpless. “Can’t.”

Can’t. Sam can deal with those. He looks at his register. His shift ends in ten minutes, and the CCTV cameras take shots at two-minute intervals.

“Hey, metal limb,” he calls out over the counter, gun still trained on the man, who looks up at him despondently. Sam has never seen such a pathetic-looking murderer in his life. “How do you feel about instant noodles?”

* * *

Steve does not, in fact, make it to the door Sam had mentioned. Or rather, he doesn’t make it back out.

Containment Locker 83 had, in its stuffy interior, a trip down memory lane that Steve would really rather not have seen. His old uniform was sitting on a shelf, folded up and in a plastic bag. Old WWII weapons and logbooks filled the walls. Maps sat in a dusty corner, rolled up into tight scrolls. And right on the farthest wall, padlocked to the wall, sat a familiar, scratched up shield. Steve stares at it, throat tightening. Memories of Howard, Phillips, the Commandos,  _ Peggy, _ flood his mind. Tears sting his eyes.

Of course, in his slightly compromised state, Steve can be forgiven for not immediately noticing Coulson walk up behind him to jab a tranquilizer into his neck.

-

He wakes up in hospital.

Steve blinks awake blearily, the faint beep of the heart monitor next to him. His right arm is in a very clunky plaster cast. He can hear the murmur of human activity outside his door, and the scratching of a pen to his left, by the big bay windows. With some effort, Steve shifts his head to look at his visitor.

Tony Stark and what looks like the contents of his entire desktop is crammed into the corner. The man himself is scribbling out notes from some holographic video feed Steve can’t hear, but he looks up upon hearing the bedsheets crinkle. His eyes light up behind his expensive sunglasses.

“Sleeping Beauty! Welcome back to the world of the living, babe. We missed you at the park. Thor bought you a Get Well Soon card. Made us all sign it too.” He gestures to the other corner or the room, where a card so enormous it couldn’t fit on the other visitor chair is awkwardly propped up against the wall. It’s covered in handprints of various colours and says  _ CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’RE A MOTHER  _ on it in large block font. Steve can’t help but smile.

“Tell him the gesture is appreciated,” he says to Tony, who seems to be shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

“I most certainly will,” Tony replies, removing his glasses to wipe a tear from his eye. “So, back to the matter at hand, which is a certain James Buchanan Barnes.”

Steve’s smile slips from his face almost as quickly as it had appeared. He looks at Tony, slight frown on his face.

“What about him?” He asks, voice low. Tony sweeps his fancy holograph screen up so that it was larger and slanted towards Steve. Clear footage of a man with a metal arm crouching on the rooftop, sniper rifle in hand fills the room. Steve feels a weight settle in his stomach as the onscreen Bucky takes aim, and then fires a single shot. The scene then cuts to another camera, the timestamp being thirty seconds before the previous one. A decent crowd of people mingle around a square.

“Watch the man by the tree,” Tony says. Steve looks at him. He’s holding a briefcase and checking his watch. Then, a split second later, he falls into the bush next to him without so much as a scream. No one even looks up.

Tony cuts the footage as Steve looks at the hospital blanket and tries not to throw up.

“This is how far the cameras were from each other, Tony says, bringing up a satellite view with two red crosses on it. “That means your buddy here sat almost two miles away, took a single shot, and did a kill so clean no one found the man’s body for two days.”

Steve’s throat is dry. “He was always a good shot,” he manages to rasp out. Tony hands him a cup of water that had been sitting precariously on a stack of papers for the past fifteen minutes.

“Cap, if he could have been any better he would have shot from the moon.” Tony says, but his usual teasing tone is serious. “I don’t know anyone on Earth who could have taken that shot.”

“So?” Steve says, “Where is he now? Can’t you google it?”

Tony puts his hands on his face with a dramatic groan.

“Pride of our nation,” he moans, “And he thinks you can just google where a record-breaking sniper wielding assassin is currently hiding.”

“Thanks Tony, I get it,” Steve grumbles, but Tony cuts him off, leaning forward over his bed.

“Anyway, the question is not  _ where _ he is, but  _ who _ he is now.” Steve’s brow furrows.

“Who he is? He’s James Buchanan Barnes, known as Bucky. He was my best friend and Sergeant in the 107 th division. And he was a damn good sniper.” Steve says defensively. Tony looks at him funnily, a look Steve can’t quite place. “Why are you looking at me like that? Who is he if not Bucky?”

Tony opens his mouth, but is spared from answering by the hospital door being slammed open.

“He’s the Winter Soldier,” Fury says, stalking into the room, Coulson following behind him like a worried mother. “Stark, how the fuck did you get in?”

After a moment of stunned silence, Tony and Steve start yelling over each other.

“Fury, I just walked in like any decent person would do–”

“Oh,  _ now _ you come to check up on me–”

“– not my fault your monitors are pathetically stone age–”

“– you couldn’t even tell me my best friend was alive, I had to find out when he tried to  _ murder me _ –”

_ “SHUT UP.” _ Fury roars, and both Steve and Tony clamp their mouths shut obediently. Fury glares at them, sighs, and closes the door. Coulson sets up camp beside Steve, taking his temperature tenderly with the back of his hand despite the fact that Tony had all of Steve’s vitals scrolling on his hologram.

“Captain, looks like you aren’t the only deceivingly youthful senior citizen in the world,” Fury says, standing at parade rest at the foot of Steve’s bed.

“You think?” Steve says disbelievingly. Fury gives him another glare.

“Stark’s rubbing off on you. How depressing.” Tony makes an affronted noise at that. Fury continues on as if he hadn’t heard anything. “James Buchanan Barnes, otherwise known as the Winter Soldier. He’s been nothing but a ghost for the past few decades, some sort of nightmare amongst criminal circles and top secret organizations. And now, thanks to him going after you is a way that is  _ so _ not his style, we know he’s working for HYDRA.”

Steve feels his whole world crash.

“HYDRA?” He says, unable to believe it. “We took out HYDRA.”

Fury looks at him, sympathy flickering across his face. “You did. But they held on like the stubborn bastards they are. HYDRA rebuilt itself slowly across different government organizations, spreading like a web. Going by different names. Different associations. S.H.I.E.L.D is currently in lockdown while we weed out potential spies.”

“So I died for nothing,” Steve says stonily.

“That’s not true and you know it,” Tony interjects before Fury or Coulson can say anything. Steve drags his eyes up to look at him. “If you didn’t crash that motherfucker, half of the Axis military controls and millions of innocent civilians would have died. The world would have become a Nazi cesspit.” Steve can’t say anything. He curls his hand into a fist, gripping it by his side.

“HYDRA still exists, and they have Bucky,” he groans, “Even with the serum and seventy years in the future, I can’t stop getting beat up.”

“With all due respect, Steve, we told you this would happen eventually. Someone was going to take notice.” Coulson says quietly. He looks almost afraid.

“I know,” Steve says. “I know, I just– I don’t want to be Captain America anymore. I just want to live the life I never got. Help the little guys out. Maybe literally.”

“We know,” Tony says, looking at him fiercely. “And you’re damn well gonna get that life if I have any say in it.”

“This is all very poetic,” Fury says, interrupting Tony’s conviction, “But the Soldier has dropped off the grid. The CCTV cameras in the lobby don’t do video, just still photos at intervals. Your man managed to escape in the window, and it seems he took our receptionist with him.”

“Fuck,” Steve swears, dropping his head into his hand. “Sam.”

“But thanks to this,” Coulson picks up a file, “We unraveled the HYDRA thread and got intel from one of the discovered plants in S.H.I.E.L.D. They’re planning an attack.”

“Where and when?” Steve asks, raising his head. Coulson shrugs.

“We don’t know yet. All we got is the transcript of the interrogation and some printed computer records of the plant, one Jasper Sitwell.” Coulson’s eyes tighten painfully for a fraction of a second, before returning them to their usual bland look. “The rest have been sent to your laptop via encrypted mail.”

“Got them,” Tony says from the side. Everyone turns to look at him. “What? Did you really think I couldn’t access any file that had some cute little password?”

“Putting the blatant illegal access of unauthorized data aside,” Fury continues, “We’re in lockdown. So that means no more surveillance, no more tests, no more interaction with us at any point. I know it’ll be  _ really _ hard for you to let go of us, so I’m giving you a burner phone that goes straight to Coulson. We’ve got shit to do, but Stark here will look out for you if he’s capable of tearing his eyes away from the mirror long enough to save your life.”

“I can look out for myself,” Steve says at the same time that Tony hisses, “Oh, you bald piece of day-old tuna.”

Fury nods, slow and sarcastic as he looks pointedly at Steve’s cast.

“Yes, Captain, I’m sure.” He strides towards the door, Coulson following suit. “Oh, one more thing. I don’t care if the Soldier was your estranged lover or your best friend or the human manifestation of love and all things sunshine, do not pursue him. In fact, stay with Stark and people he trusts at all times. Or else.”

With that, Fury sweeps out of the room. Coulson stops at the door long enough to nod at Steve, before slipping out and closing it silently behind him. With them gone, Steve slumps back onto the reclining bed, releasing tension he didn’t know he was holding. Tony looks at him.

“We’re not going after him,” he says quietly. Steve stares at the ceiling, a plan already formulating in the back of his head. And by the way Tony is looking at him, he’s got the same idea.

“No,” Steve agrees. Tony nods slowly.

“But he can come to us.”

* * *

“So when you said you had an idea, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Steve says two days later, trying to balance uncomfortably on the sloped roof. Tony hovers next to him, a wise, pensive look on his face that is ruined by the fact that he only has the bottom half of the suit on and looks ridiculous.

“No, I’m pretty sure we’re on the same wavelength here,” Tony replies as Steve’s right boot slips several inches of its own accord.

“I thought we were going to lure Bucky to us,” Steve tells him, equal parts annoyed and fearful. He leans back and tries to ignore the feeling that he’s slowly falling. Tony blinks at him.

“We  _ are, _ ” he says, rolling his eyes and doing the bare minimum to stop his employee from slipping off the roof of a water slide tower. “I can think of no better way to lure in the soldier than putting your ass into some blue spandex and leaving you to give off smoke signals from the most visible part of the park.”

“There’s no fire up here,” Steve points out, “Just a whole lot of nothing to hold onto.”

“You’re already making your own personalized handholds,” Tony retorts, indicating where Steve’s gloved hands have dug into the thin metal sheet of the roof hard enough to start denting, “So make some footholds to go along with them while I’m feeling generous enough not to deduct damage costs from your salary, and I’ll get you your shield. Use it as a gong or something.”

The jets on the soles of the suit rumble and Tony zips back down to land, leaving Steve feeling like the biggest fool in the universe. He spares a glance down to the empty park below, closed for the week. If he’s being honest, a large part of him wants to rip off the spandex (they hadn’t even been able to find an actual costume, just a blue morph-suit Tony had ‘modified’ with a red sharpie and a pair of scissors), jump on his bike, and start turning the city upside down for Bucky. On the other hand, a smaller part of him that is being heavily reinforced by both Nick Fury and his employer-turned-supersoldier-babysitter Tony is giving off all sorts of alarm bells that range from psychosomatic twinges in his arm to the chilling thought that Bucky has  _ no idea who he even is. _ Well, that just fucking sucks.

While he’s wallowing in his own Bucky-induced misery, Tony slides neatly up, holding out the shield with an obstinate gesture. Steve has no idea how his employer had even managed to smuggle it out of S.H.I.E.L.D, but he takes it anyway. Tony then proceeds to procure a very large mallet from either his back pocket or an interdimensional portal and hands that over as well.

“Do your thing,” he says hands flapping in a ‘whatever’ sort of gesture. “Ting ting, motherfucker.”

Steve sighs as Tony zooms away sniggering. With a defeated slump, he raises his shield and the mallet high. The things he’ll fucking do.

He lasts for about twenty minutes of repeated banging before slipping off the tower entirely and putting himself back into hospital.

* * *

“Why are you here,” Steve groans, waking up to a hovering Tony Stark. “Stop hovering, it’s weird.”

“Sorry,” Tony says, making absolutely no effort to stop. Steve opens his eyes further, and notes with pleasant surprise that he’s not actually  _ in _ hospital. The boardroom of Stark Park has somehow been converted into a pseudo-medical ward, with his vitals being displayed in neat, rolling numbers on a holo-screen. The large mahogany table has been pushed to the far side of the room to accommodate for Steve’s bed, which upon further coherence, is actually just three two person floats strapped to each other and covered with several beach towels. How classy.

“You weren’t that badly beaten up,” Tony says, “So we made an executive decision to keep you here. Also, you owe me a bed. Turns out ones made for water park first-aid bays are not built to withstand 200 pounds of super soldier.”

“I’m so sorry my genetically perfect body caused you that much distress,” Steve tells him, sitting up and rolling his shoulder experimentally. His back feels pleasantly numb, but underneath that he can tell that the muscles are knitting themselves back together, bone setting easily. “Can I remind you that it was your idea in the first place?”

“And what an idea is was,” Tony says dreamily, “I could sell that footage of Captain America for millions.”

Steve glares at him. “We had an agreement, Stark.”

“I’m not  _ going  _ to, jeez. And what’s up with you, bringing out the last names so quickly? I’m hurt, Steven Grant –”

Thor cuts off Tony by crashing into the room, Loki and Clint in tow. Literally. His left arm is wrapped around them both like a restrictive, protein filled version of a get-along shirt, and there’s a giant card slotted under his right armpit. Bruce and Natasha pad in after them with four or five bags of some foreign takeout that smells really, really good. Clint stops struggling in Thor’s grip long enough to look at Steve and chokes out “Aw, damn, he’s awake. I  _ told _ you guys we were taking too long.”

Thor drops both Clint and Loki unceremoniously onto the floor. They both make simultaneous noises of protest between gasping for air.

“Steven!” He booms, as joyous as ever. Steve cracks a smile.

“Hey, Thor.” Thor walks up to him and puts the back of his hand to Steve’s face. He nods solemnly, as if Steve is recovering particularly well from the flu. Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him that falling twenty feet, while giving him a broken back, doesn’t give him a fever.

“We got you a get well soon card,” he says, presenting Steve with another enormous card. It has  _ I found my Prince and his name is Daddy _ printed across the front in garish, hot pink cursive with a terribly drawn glittering crown sitting crookedly on the word  _ Prince _ . From the other side of the makeshift float-bed, Tony lets out a strangled wheeze.

“Thank you so much,” Steve says, as he takes the card, “There are so many things wrong with this card I don’t even know where to begin, but I really appreciate it.” Thor beams.

“Loki chose it,” he says proudly. Loki grunts from the other side of the room, a falafel ball in his mouth.

“That… seems as if it should explain a lot, but ultimately, it doesn’t,” Steve replies, gently handing off the card to a trembling Tony, who promptly whisks out of the room to laugh at it. Thor shrugs, dopey grin softening to a smile that seemed way too old to be on a face that young.

“We’re all just glad you’re alright, Steven,” he says softly. “All of us here have burdens. You are welcome to share yours with us.”

“I- thank you,” Steve says. “You know, you can come to me too. If. If you need help. I’m here for you as well. And Loki. Although I think he might kill me for suggesting.”

Thor clasps him on the shoulder and shakes him gently as an unspoken confirmation. “My brother likes to think he’s only pathetic when he feels like it,” he says.

“Don’t we all,” Steve replies as Bruce walks up to them with a soft smile and a container heaped with falafels. He offers them to Steve, who - suddenly feeling very hungry, grabs about five and all but inhales them. Bruce, probably used to all the copious amounts of food everyone except their employer seemed to consume, barely bats an eyelid.

* * *

Sam wakes up to what should be a nice breeze flowing through his apartment, except it’s approaching fall in New York so the breeze is less nice and more  _ fucking freezing _ . He blinks blearily, shivers, and pulls his blanket around him, before realizing that his door is open. Sam never sleeps with his door open.

Immediately on guard, he pulls his blanket around him and off the bed, starting to slowly pad over to the open door. A few minutes of listening tells him that either no one is in the apartment with him, or that they’re well versed in the art of not breathing. He steps out with some relief, and notices that he’s missing a window.

“What,” he says, “the fuck.”

He hurriedly grabs his pistol from where it’s shoved down the back of the couch, and whirls around to scan the room. The state of his living room looks like a nuclear explosion. Not good. His coffee table is overturned, paper strewn all over the floor. The window is not missing, but rather reduced to glass fragments and wooden splinters. There’s smudges of blood on all possible surfaces. The curtain rod is half hanging off the ceiling. Instant noodle containers are scattered throughout the room.

Sam twists around cautiously, but there’s no sound other than his breathing and the hum of Manhattan traffic down below. He can’t remember much about last night except a blur of boiling water constantly to make noodles, bringing a guy back to his apartment and attempting to bandage his knees up for somereason, and getting knocked out with whatever said guy had slipped into his nth cup of noodles.  _ Probably just had a bad one night stand _ , he muses, before the last part of that statement catches up with him. As well as every other memory.

Sam groans. It’s too early for this. He has work in two hours, his lounge is ruined, and he’s pretty sure he just got played by an assassin. And to top it all off, there’s about four tons of MSG in his stomach right now that he needs to let out. With a sigh, he steps gingerly over the remnants of his window and heads to his bathroom.

And stops mid lurch for the toilet upon seeing the large marker scrawl on his mirror.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ,” Sam says.

* * *

The next day, Pepper and Tony slam open the board room doors with all the subtleties of a battering ram.

“Rise and shine, lovelies,” Tony sing-songs, ignoring everyone’s sleepy morning grumbles, “Jarvis, darling, All window blackouts to zero percent, if you will. So, did you all have the most restful night of your lives? Are you ready to start the day fresh and energetic, like a chimpanzee on LSD?”

“If you keep talking, Stark, I will not be able to guarantee the safety of your tongue,” Loki growls from where he’s buried in a pile of pillows.

“That’s the spirit,” Tony replies breezily.

After dinner, Thor had suddenly proclaimed that he was going to stay with Steve overnight, since moving him wasn’t exactly a viable option. And if Thor was staying, so was Loki, then Bruce had said that he didn’t mind staying on in case Steve needed any actual medical care, and then Clint yelled “SLEEPOVER” and it had all escalated from there. In a matter of minutes, several more floats were being squeezed into the boardroom, along with pillows and blankets from first aid. Tony took one look at his employees commandeering his boardroom and announced that he was going to go home to his bed to sleep like a normal person. After he left, Nat suggested watching a movie, something that Steve and surprisingly - Loki - were both very open to doing. So open, in fact, that they both formed a temporary unspoken pact to kill anyone who said otherwise.

Which led them to this moment, all waking up from approximately three hours of sleep.

“What movies did you watch?” Tony asks, eyes scanning over Steve’s vitals.

“Brokeback Mountain,” Clint replies, rubbing his eyes. “The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl. Shrek 1  _ and _ 2\. Loki cried. He looked stupid.”

Tony does something very complicated with his eyebrows.

“I had a drinking problem and my mind is still somehow less fucked than any of yours. Also, don’t worry about that, Loki. Everyone cries at Brokeback Mountain.”

“That’s not the one he cried at,” Nat says, already tapping away at her phone. There’s a long stagnant pause in which Pepper reappears with a five-pound family pack of Kellogg’s cornflakes and some bowls.

“You know what? Every time one of you answers me, I just end up with more questions than I started off with.” Tony finally says. “Milk and spoons are in the mini fridge, and  _ no one _ here is allowed to chug it or I’ll fire you on the spot. We also have a meeting after breakfast about some Things with a capital T. Any questions?”

“Yes,” Loki says, “Why the fuck do you keep your spoons in the mini fridge?”

* * *

One hour and two boxes of cornflakes later, Tony stands up and clears his throat.

“This is an intervention,” He announces, raising a flute of champagne.

“This is an employee meeting,” Pepper says with great suffering, forcing him to put down the glass.

Steve tries to ignore the voices around him and returns his attention to the file Tony had shoved into his hands, rereading it for what seems like the twentieth time. Next to him, Clint throws a pen at Loki, who catches it mid-trajectory with a flat, unimpressed stare. Tony’s boisterous voice rings through the meeting room.

“Anyway, before Pepper so rudely interrupted me, I was going to say: There’s a very, very big problem that we all, as both citizens of America and staff of Stark Park, have to deal with.” Tony pauses, picks the flute up again, and drains it. “A massive Nazi-shaped problem.”

Steve finally tears his eyes away from Bucky’s file from where he’s still lying in his makeshift bed. Everyone is eerily silent. Tony continues.

“In case you haven’t clued in on it yet, our good old waterslide operator Steve here is Captain America,” he says.

“Wow,” Natasha says, not even looking up from where she’s picking out soggy bits of cereal, “I had no idea.”

“Can I get an autograph?” Clint adds.

“Shh!” Tony snaps his fingers at them bossily, “No fan meet and greets with my employee allowed. Anyway, the point is that Hydra still exists and they’ve been infiltrating literally every single government run body of operations, including but not limited to the CIA, DHS, Senate, Congress, S.H.I.E.L.D, etcetera. Basically, we’re all royally fucked, and we would have been even more so if Cap’s estranged lover hadn’t shown up.”

“Hey,” Steve begins hotly, but Tony barrels on. He flicks his wrist and a holo-screen of Bucky appears.

“Real Name: James Buchanan Barnes. Alias: The Winter Soldier. Nat, you’ve gone stiff there. Got something you want to disclose to the group?”

Natasha fixes Tony with a glare that would have murdered a lesser man, but Tony just crosses his arms and stares back. Eventually, she lets out a short sigh and everyone else involuntarily leans forward, transfixed on her.

“I was protecting a client in ’09, a nuclear scientist. He sent our car off a cliff. I managed to get us to safety, but when the Soldier realised that he was still alive, he fired a round straight through me. Killed the scientist immediately. Nearly killed me.” A pause. “I knew him before, too.”

Everyone erupts into chaos.

“Whoa, whoa whoa,” Tony says, taken aback, “you  _ knew  _ him?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “They brought him into the Red Room. Trained us – the Widows – sometimes. Then the KGB decided they wanted nothing to do with Hydra and canned him. He was my mentor.”

Tony shakes his head. “This just keeps getting more tragic. Next thing you know someone else from this group is going to pipe up and be like ‘actually, he murdered my parents and ruined my life’ or something. Anyway. Moving on.

“We all know him as Captain America’s bro, his number one buddy, Sergeant Bucky Barnes. Hydra’s been using him as a contracted killer for several decades now, and he’s usually pretty low-key about his kills, until he ambushed Steve in the canned food aisle and pulverised his arm.”

Steve watches Tony flick to still shots of the S.H.I.E.L.D lobby. Through the grainy quality, he can see the receptionist Sam Wilson training a gun on what looks like a comatose Bucky. Next shot, both are gone without a trace. Clint breathes in sharply from the other end of the room.

“Outdoor CCTV was cut as soon as they left. There’s no record of them. Jarvis is currently checking street cams for any facial matches, but it seems as if the two of them have just disappeared into thin air. As well as that, S.H.I.E.L.D has given us the address of the receptionist - Sam Wilson. War veteran, Air Force Pararescue. Lives alone. Moved to New York three years ago from D.C., and has been hired by S.H.I.E.L.D for the past year or so as a night receptionist. Since S.H.I.E.L.D’s been in some sort of lockdown for the past few days, no one’s been able to start tracking him, which is where  _ I _ come into play. Cap, how’s the back?”

“Positively incredible,” Steve replies.

“One of your vertebrae is still fractured,” Pepper cuts in disapprovingly. Steve ignores her.

“That’s three less than yesterday.”

“Great, so Steve’s more or less cleared for active duty. Agent Coulson said that Wilson’s background check is all cleared out - no Hydra connections visible - but we all know that S.H.I.E.L.D has the security of a daycare, so I’ve been running my own little op on him too, just for shits and giggles. While that’s happening, we’re going to pay his apartment a visit. He may have been a fan of –” Tony pulls a disgusted face and spits the next words out like they were acid, “- using paper.”

“So,” Natasha says slowly, “What does any of this have to do with us? We’re just your employees.”

“You’re not fooling anyone, Red Sparrow,” Tony clicks his tongue at her, “Steve is a target, and I’ll be fucking damned before I let any Nazis near waterpark. Or my darling Captain.”

“Stop it, Tony,” Steve deadpans, “I may swoon all over you.”

“Get in line, sweetheart,” Tony retorts. “And to answer your question – you’re now all on bodyguard duty. For some reason, I’ve managed to end up with a staff that consists completely of people who should be saving the world or destroying it, not watching over small children, so I’m going to put that to good use. S.H.I.E.L.D got intel that Hydra is planning to attack somewhere, and I want to be prepared,” he finishes grimly. Looks around the room. “Capiche?”

“Crystal clear, boss,” Clint says, “But I want a pay raise if I’m gonna be shooting more than just bird bait into the air.”

“I’ll have one too,” Natasha adds, leaning back into a more relaxed position.

“I don’t want any part of this,” Bruce says.

“And we want a falafel stall,” Thor and Loki say in disconcerting unison.

“Fine, fine, we’ll talk later, and I’ll think about it but you two are on thin fucking ice after that Subway incident,” Tony says, shaking his head. “All of you are a bunch of fucking gold diggers.”

* * *

Hours later in the late afternoon, Tony, Steve, and Steve’s crutches knock on a nice third-storey apartment in Manhattan. While they wait, Steve notices what looks like a pile of untouched newspapers to the side.

“I don’t think you need to knock,” he whispers to Tony, gesturing with his left crutch to the pile, “He’s been taken by Hydra, just break in.”

“He might be Hydra himself,” Tony mutters, but he slaps an iron gauntlet to his palm anyway and busts the lock.

“Room service,” he calls out as he swings the door open. Immediately, they come face to face with Sam Wilson himself, wearing cloud patterned fleece pyjama pants and aiming his pistol right against Tony’s forehead.

“Well,” Tony says after a short pause, “This was unexpected."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> find me on tumblr [here](http://tvheit.tumblr.com)


	3. Nazis, Instant Ramen, and The End Of The Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, the world's most unconventional final battle happens, and Luis Fonsi is given a shoutout.

“Tony Stark? What the hell?” Sam hisses, making no move to lower his gun. Tony raises his arms in surrender.

“Okay, okay, so this isn’t going how we expected it to be going at  _ all, _ ” he starts, but Sam stares at his iron gauntlet, and then at his busted lock.

“Did you guys  _ break into my apartment?” _ he asks, voice raising. Steve shushes him hurriedly.

“We thought you were kidnapped!” He says, which just makes Sam look more confused.

“Kidnap- No, you moron! Jesus,” he groans, lowering the gun finally. Tony breathes out heavily. “Come in.”

Tony and Steve edge their way into the apartment. It’s nice, tasteful, and about eighteen degrees colder than an industrial refrigerator. Steve shivers. Sam disappears into the kitchen, and moments later Steve hears the distinctive sound of a kettle being boiled.

“I see you’re missing a window,” Tony says, wandering around. He kicks some instant noodle containers around, intrigued.

“Good observation,” Sam’s dry voice drifts in from the kitchen, “It was a design choice made by someone who stayed over. Very back-to-nature kind of dude, I believe. Had a penchant for murder.”

Steve shifts from foot to foot awkwardly as he and Tony exchange glances. Sam reappears with yet another cup of noodles. At their stares, he scoffs.

“I’m making you guys tea, calm down,” Sam says, directing them to the bathroom, “Unless you want some good old monosodium glutamate.”

“We’re good, thanks,” Steve says.

“Any particular reason why you’re shepherding us into your ensuite?” Tony says.

“Just shut up for a second, robocop,” Sam replies, ignoring Tony’s indignant splutter as he yanks open the door. Steve’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. On the mirror, a large messy scrawl is visible.  _ HYDRA COMING _ , it reads, with the words  _ STARK ENTERTAINMENT _ making up the second line. The  _ ENTERTAINMENT _ doesn’t quite fit, so it drops down almost vertically in a desperate and futile attempt to maintain penmanship. Tony immediately whips out his phone and snaps a picture of it. “Is – is that magic marker?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, “I guess.” Tony whirls around the bathroom with his phone out, scanning for something.

“Looking for any potential bugs,” he explains, “Or bombs. Either would be bad enough.” Evidently finding none, he sweeps out to the rest of the apartment.

Sam looks at Steve, who is currently re-reading the mirror for the seventh time. He puts a tentative hand on his shoulder, causing Steve to jolt and look at him. Sam swallows.

“Thanks for the concern,” he says, “But I was the one doing the kidnapping, in case you haven’t clued in on it. Your guy – Barnes, he said his name was – he’s in a bad place. We kind of had a twelve-hour therapist session on my couch eating noodles and watching shitty daytime cable.” Steve has so much to say. He has so much he wants to ask, about Bucky, how was he, is he doing okay, if I see him again will he try to gut me, etc.

“You kneecapped him,” His stupid mouth says instead, “How the hell did you survive that?”

Sam shrugs awkwardly. “I had a  _ lot _ of noodles.”

* * *

“Let me get this straight,” Tony says, once they’re all situated on Sam’s couch and the heater is running full-blast, “You took a deadly assassin back to your apartment after you shot him because he looked pitiful. And you fed him instant ramen.”

“That’s about it, yeah,” Sam replies. Tony drags his hand down his face. “In my defence, it’s like bringing home a stray Rottweiler.”

“Yeah, except the Rottweiler is homicidal, wanted dead or alive, and works for Nazis,” Tony groans, and Steve hits him with a crutch. “Hey!”

“This isn’t Bucky’s fault,” Steve says, “Sam talked to him. He’s been a puppet for Hydra all these years.”

“I wouldn’t really call it ‘talking’, Sam muses, “More like a gentle interrogation where all the answers were emotive grunts.”

“And from this, we know that Hydra hasn’t been too successful in their brainwashing, if almost all it took to undo it was me.”

“That’s all really romantic,” Tony says, “But have you forgotten about the part where he tried to murder you?”

“Sentimentalities,” Steve says with faux cheer, attempting to hide his own slow growing optimism under irony. “You saw the mirror. That’s definitely his handwriting, I had to read over his essays all the time. Someone who works willingly for Hydra wouldn’t warn us of their plans. This isn’t his choice, Tony.”

“He could be planting false information,” Tony counters, “What if we amp up security around the Stark Entertainment HQ and then somewhere else more important gets thoroughly Nazi-fucked? What’s going to happen then, Steve? I’m not saying that your man isn’t trying to help, but his brain, from what I’ve read about and what Sam’s been saying, has been through the literal blender and there’s always a possible chance that he’s subconsciously being told to betray you.”

“I hate to be that therapist,” Sam interrupts, “But Stark is right, Steve. He’s still unsure about a  _ lot _ . I can’t be certain that anything he does or says can be trusted. Hydra’s gotten him back now, and who knows what sort of brain-washing or torture that they’re gonna do to him. Speaking of, I can’t fucking believe they broke my window.”

Steve stares at both of them. They’re right, he knows they’re right, but it still hurts to know that. “I still think this is the best we’ve got.”

Tony has on an expression like he’s consulting two options that could either make or break their future. “I’ll tell this to S.H.I.E.L.D. – it’s probably best for them if they don’t have to deal with Wilson right now, so I’ll get Jarvis’ reports and see if any data corroborates. Even if it doesn’t, my word should be enough for them. Oh, no offense meant, by the way.”

“None taken,” Sam says, “You know, I’ve suddenly gotten very interested in upstate New York. Rochester looks like a great place to spend a few weeks. Any town that has a meal called Garbage Plate as a famous attraction is at peak hospitality in my books.”

“Good,” Tony replies, fingers already flying on his phone screen, “We’ll text you if anything goes wrong, Jarvis’ll cover your tracks so the big bullies down ambush you in the diner. And I’ll fix your window. Maybe your cushion covers too, they do  _ not _ match that wallpaper.”

“Thanks, I appreciate the insults,” Sam says, and glances at Steve. He hesitates for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his pants and pulling out a rumpled business card. “In case you need someone to talk to, I’m here,” He tells Steve. Steve takes the card, cheeks warming with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. Tony stops tapping, and lets out a triumphant shout.

“Intercepted code sent three weeks ago,” he says excitedly, “Jarvis, baby, you’re the light of my life, you know?”

He waves the phone at Steve and Sam enthusiastically, “Thanks to my darling A.I., we now have access to several snippets of Hydra communication lines. They’re all defunct now, thanks to the crackdown, but some remnants of conversation remain.”

“So?” Steve says hurriedly, “Was Bucky telling the truth?”

Tony squints at the scrolling text, “Hard to tell, no location is mentioned in the messages so far. I gotta get back to my office to go through everything properly – Sam, would you mind if we left now? We’ll keep you posted so long as you tell us if the Garbage Plate is named literally, or figuratively.”

“Will do,” Sam says with a buck-toothed grin, standing up to shake Tony’s hand. He shakes Steve’s as well, with a soft “don’t fuck up too much, Captain.” Steve grins at him over his shoulder as he turns to follow Tony out.

“I’ll try my best, Tech Sergeant,” he replies, and relishes in Sam’s sputtered “ _ how did you fucking know.” _

“That’s slightly creepy,” Tony tells him, and Steve just snorts.

* * *

That night, at 3 am, Tony rings up Steve sounding like he’s ascended past the mortal act of just drinking coffee to absorbing it continuously through osmosis. Steve is already awake, sketching absently in his lonely apartment. He hadn’t gotten much luck with trying to sleep, so he brought out his old charcoals from when he had first gone to a commercial art store, months ago, and sat by the window to draw.

“Steve, the attack is confirmed to be late in September, which gives them a two-week window to plan an assault from now. This info was sent after the crackdown, which means they aren’t going to retreat, probably, and Jarvis managed to decrypt an image sent - Just  _ guess _ what it was,” Tony babbles. Steve pauses, thinking, but evidently his brain takes too long for a caffeinated Stark to wait because he blurts out, “You fucking got it, it was the SI logo. Looks like your greasy cyborg may have been correct.”

“See,” Steve says, and stops, looking down at his sketchbook. Bucky stares back at him. This isn’t new, Steve had drawn him before, along with Peggy and the Howling Commandos, trying to remember them like he did, not like history had. But previous drawings have always been of 1940s Bucky, trapped in an era Steve desperately wishes for. This one is of Bucky now, a soldier, with hauntingly blank, sunken eyes and long hair. He just can’t get the metal arm right. This Bucky is someone Steve doesn’t recognise, and it hurts him to admit so.

“-eve, Steve,” Tony says, and Steve blinks back to the present, “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, sorry,” he replies, “What did you say?”

“I think you should move into the employee dorms,” Tony says, “Thor and Loki currently live there, but Nat and Clint have been talking to me about staying there as well. It’ll be much safer than your apartment.” A pause. “I’m working on some things, in case of emergencies. We’re gonna put out a leak to make Hydra know we know about their plans; here’s to hoping they get the hint and back down before we have to actually engage.”

“It’s hard to win a war before it’s even started,” Steve murmurs, so quietly he thinks Tony might not have heard it. A sigh comes through over the phone.

“I know, Steve,” Tony says, surprisingly comforting for someone who is probably pumping caffeine directly into his bloodstream, “I know. But we can try.”

* * *

Tony puts him under house arrest.

“It’s not house arrest, stop calling it that,” he says at the next employee meeting they hold, “The park is still going to be running, Steve, you’re free to walk around. Just not outside of the park. Think of it as a paid vacation.”

“Yeah, like going to jail,” Steve says petulantly. Tony rolls his eyes.

“Okay, Mister Dramatic, not like I have the nicest employee housing in the world or anything,” he snipes, and Steve has to admit that the dorms are incredibly nice; the building has a rustic, yet modern feel to it, and the rooms are comfortable. Still, he feels like a bird having its wings clipped. “Besides, we’re all always here now. You’re just a liability right now that we can’t afford.”

“Thank you, really,” Steve says, trying not to let too much of his bitterness seep into his voice, “You always do wonders for my self-esteem.”

Bruce looks at him pityingly. “Steve, it’ll be okay. It’s two weeks until we’re in the clear. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“You’ve been under house-arrest?”

“Well, something like that.”

“Thor and I hold movie marathons,” Loki says suddenly. Steve stares at him, and he fidgets a little under the gaze. “You’re welcome to join us. If you wish to.” Thor nods his assent enthusiastically.

That, Steve muses, was probably the nicest thing Loki had ever said to him, and they’ve been friends for at least three months now.

“Is this  _ Sleepover 2: Electric Boogaloo _ I hear being organised?” Clint interjects, “I believe it fuckin’ is.”

“See?” Tony says to Steve as the rest of the meeting erupts into loud chatter, “Just like a paid vacation. Jesus. I need a drink.”

* * *

“House arrest is not as interesting as I was hoping it would be,” Clint says conversationally a few days later, twisting experimentally.

“You aren’t under house arrest, Steve is. No one is stopping you from leaving,” Loki says, walking back into the employee common room. There’s a hideous pair of headphones on his head that is connected to a Sony Walkman. Steve is pretty sure Tony started crying the first time he saw it, which just served to make Loki use it more. “Steve, Thor wants to know if you wish to spar.”

“I’ll pass,” Steve says, going back to scrolling through Pinterest. Metallic surfaces were incredibly hard to colour.

“He’s disappointed,” Loki replies.

“Tell him Steve’s really sorry but he just lost his hands,” Clint interjects from where he’s currently experimenting in contortionism on a beam. Loki pauses, torn between ignoring Clint and lying to Thor. One of those evidently wins out.

“He’s now horrified,” He says, a hint of a smile ghosting across his face as he flops on the couch across from Steve and starts fiddling with his Walkman. Clint does a little fist pump with what looks like his right hand, but Steve can’t be sure. Silence stretches through the common room, and then Loki points his Walkman to the TV and turns it on. Steve and Clint, having long learnt that trying to understand anything Loki does will just led to more confusion, barely even blink. The channels flip for a while before settling on some sort of generic news channel that alternates between footage of Tony standing in the lobby of Stark Entertainment looking harried and a primly dressed news reporter.

“- Security is pouring in at Stark Entertainment HQ after an anonymous tip about an attack was received. This attack is said to be carried out by Hydra, a sleeper organization from World War -” She recites, cut off by Clint disentangling himself and dropping down to lean on the back of the couch.

“Seems like Stark has got his work cut out for him,” he observes, and Steve nods. He’s itching to go outside, desperate to help, but Fury would tear him a new one if he found out how exactly they got this information, and Coulson - Coulson would be disappointed, which is even  _ worse _ . Still, this doesn’t stop him from twitching his fingers, laptop suddenly heavy and useless in his lap despite having provided hours of entertainment beforehand. Loki glances over at him warily.

“Steve,” he says, slowly. Steve, realizing he’s half off the couch, laptop closed to one side, unconsciously tensing, forces his muscles to relax.

“Sorry,” he says. Loki does the barest of head shakes, almost like he’s being reassuring. Which is nice. Loki is anything but reassuring ninety-nine percent of the time _.  _ Steve nods back and turns his attention back to the TV, unwilling to reopen his now dull Pinterest tabs. The reporter drones on about Hydra and the arrest of several high-ranking officials, and all Steve can think of is Bucky. How he’s doing, what Hydra is going to do to him, what can Steve do to help him, really. What he’s thinking about.

“Probably murder,” Clint says, which gives Steve a split-second of a heart attack thinking that Clint’s been a secret telepath all along until he adds “You’ve been talking out loud for the past five minutes. Loki left to get popcorn.”

“Oh good,” Steve replies, then realizes what that meant. “Oh God.”

“Listen, I’m not one to normally look at documents unless I’m on a job,” Clint says, not looking at him, “But your new ones are particularly interesting, concerning recent events.”

“I didn’t know he was alive,” Steve says immediately, because the last thing he needs right now is S.H.I.E.L.D. getting suspicious about him. Clint shakes his head.

“Yeah, we got that,” he replies, “But when you choose a new identity based off an old one, it says a lot about your feelings, what you choose to keep or discard.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, but he has a sinking feeling Clint does. “What do you mean?”

“I think you’re emotionally compromised when it comes to the Soldier,” Clint says quietly. There it is.

“I appreciate your concern, Clint -” he starts, but Clint stops him.

“No, no. See, it’s not only you I’m worried about. I’m worried about us,” he turns to Steve, “I’m worried about the park, the people in that building, I’m worried about our boss -” He gestures to the screen, where Tony is currently dodging microphones,” - I’m not saying that we don’t have what it takes to hunt down Hydra, because I still have faith in S.H.I.E.L.D. and I have faith in SI. I’m saying that Hydra has a huge advantage over us, and that advantage is you. If they make you choose between killing Bucky or converting to their side, we can’t say for sure what you’re gonna pick.”

Steve gapes at him, “I can’t believe you’d fucking say th-”

“Am I wrong?” Clint asks. Steve stops. Opens his mouth to say _yes, of course,_ _I would kill my best friend, someone I’ve loved for years since we met until since we died, someone who_ I _would die for,_ but he can’t. Clint takes in his silence with a grim face. “That’s what I mean.”

Loki chooses this time to walk back in.

“Okay, what’s going on,” he sighs, noticing the solemn mood. “Are you both alright?”

“Yes, sorry,” Steve says, and Clint nods. Loki scrutinizes them both.

“Fess up. What happened while I was gone?”

“Nothing,” Steve says.

“Steve is realizing that he may turn traitor and become a Nazi if his murderous ex-boyfriend bats his eyelashes at him and says pretty please,” Clint says. Steve, to his credit, only feels slightly offended.

“Well,” Loki says, barely suppressing an eye-roll, “That would be very unfortunate for us.”

“You’re telling me,” Clint sighs as Steve says, “I’m not going to betray you.”

Loki shrugs, putting down the massive bowl of popcorn he had carried in on the side table. “I’d like to see you even try, Steve. It would be much more entertaining than the news.” Said news channel is now showing the police forcing reporters away from the site with minimal success.

“I don’t know,” Clint counters absently, “You’d think when a terrorist attack is predicted people would want to get away from the site, not closer to it.”

“Most people,” Steve adds, stealing some popcorn from Loki, “Not the media.”

“Right.” They watch the struggle between law enforcement and hungry journalists for a moment, and then Loki says, “Why don’t you bat your eyelashes at him?”

“What,” Steve and Clint say. Loki fixes them with an incredibly unimpressed stare.

“Bat your eyelashes,” he continues, pointing at Steve, “At your ex-boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t my ex-boyfriend,” Steve says, because he has no idea how to respond to the rest of that statement.

“I don’t care,” Loki groans, “If he’s so handsome that you’re considering being part of a society that uses genocide as a viable solution, why can’t you just do the reverse to him? Seduce him back out of the refrigerator.”

“Now that’s character development,” Clint mutters to no one in particular. Steve ignores him.

“Bucky doesn’t remember me,” he reminds Loki, “He wants to kill me.”

“Right,” Loki says, “And he just happened to give you a massive hint via graffiti as to where Hydra was going to attack because he was going to make sure you were going to be there - Nazi Attack on Stark’s Tall Building, can’t miss it!”

“You exhaust me,” Steve says, but it’s not as if he hasn’t thought about this before, just maybe not quite in such straightforward terms. If he could just talk to Bucky, maybe see him once more, maybe this could all be fixed. For the nth time, he wishes he could have been there with Sam, holed up in a Manhattan apartment with Bucky for two days, eating noodles and talking. Just talking.

Loki laughs at him. Then stops. His entire body goes rigid, and Steve hears a distant boom. He glances back at the TV, but nothing’s happened. Stark Entertainment looks normal. The boom sounds again and Loki leaps off the couch, clothes rippling and changing into some sort of full body armour. He snarls softly, and Steve feels dread settle in his stomach. At the same time, Clint’s comm goes off.

“Cl - Bzztzzt - int - Clint, do you copy -” Natasha’s voice crackles tinnily out of the earpiece, and Loki waves his hand, amplifying her voice to echo, ghost-like through the room.

“Nat, this is Clint,” Clint barks, already grabbing his bow from the wall, “What’s going on?”

“Oh, not much,” Natasha replies with faux cheer as the boom sounds again, but much closer and louder, “Just several thousand Nazis trying to siege the park. Cap got it wrong.” Another boom. “The Soldier betrayed us.”

Steve feels like he’s going to throw up. He leaps off the couch and runs to his room, where his shield sits, useless. Like him. He grabs it and the harness Tony had made for it, shrugging it on and strapping it tight to his back. Other than that, there’s no armor on him, there’s nothing that can assist against an assault because logically  _ no one _ would attack a water park. No one, he thinks sickeningly, but organizations that have been lying dormant inside some of the world’s greatest intelligence operations, having access to the information that several high-level threats are currently residing in one, easily accessible area. He thinks about Bruce, about the families and houses surrounding the area, about Bucky. His phone rings. It’s Tony.

“Cap, what the FUCK,” Tony roars tinnily, “Jarvis alerted me - thanks very much to Vilkas the Nord Assassin for the misinformation, by the way - so I’m on my fucking way. Don’t you dare move from the dorms; I have some stuff that you’re gonna need.”

Steve grinds his teeth. “Tony, Bruce is still in the gift shop. Nat’s on patrol by herself. Clint only has so many arrows. Thor and Loki may be gods, but hundreds versus two is still going to be struggle. They’re gonna need all the help they can get.”

Tony hisses. “Bold of you to assume you’re going to make a difference, Brad Pitt. If you leave that building, Steve, I swear I will fire you and make sure you never get to feel what it’s like to have the appropriate number of organs ever again.”

“Oh no,” Steve says, rubbing the phone against his cloth of his shirt, “Sorry Tony, just entered a tunnel. The line’s gone bad. Talk later!”

Tony’s bellow of “ _ STEVEN GRANT- _ ” is cut off as Steve hangs up, pulls on his trainers, and runs out to join the Nazi beat-down.

* * *

When Steve reaches the commercial area of Stark Park, it’s utter chaos. Steve can hear park goers and families run for cover, screaming as gunfire sounds. He sneaks over the fence, sticking to the boundary, and edges closer to the fight.

Steve doesn’t have a comm or armor or anything useful for that matter, so he leaps into the leafy foliage surrounding the lazy river. In the distance, he can hear the booms of what he now recognizes as small detonations, not enough to shake buildings but enough to kill a person. Just fantastic. He creeps down the river slowly, trying not to be seen, which is a feat and a half when you’re a six-foot-two muscle mass wearing a shield painted like a target. Luckily for him, the river winds around almost all of the park, which means he’s pretty much got a ticket straight to the fight.

A whimper sounds from the side.

Steve pauses, and then turns to his left. About a hundred meters away, a family of five cower as an agent approaches them. One of the mothers hurriedly tries to quieten the smallest child, while her partner holds the other two behind her protectively. The agent raises their gun as the kid starts to scream. Right. Human battering ram activate. Steve starts running.

With a spectacular spear tackle, Steve bursts out of the fake jungle and barrels into the agent. They roll for a few seconds, before Steve wrenches off the helmet and punches them unconscious. A quick look around tells him that no other Hydra members were present, so he quickly ushers the family into foliage.

“Follow the river to the red bridge,” he tells them, “There’s an employee exit right next to it; use the code 0030 to leave.” They thank him tearfully and he watches them lead their kids until the disappear. Then, he drags the agent into the cover of the trees and starts stealing. The Kevlar vest goes under his shield’s harness. The boots look cumbersome, but there’s shin guards and knee pads so he puts those on too. The gun looks like a standard assault rifle, but Steve notes that it didn’t seem to discharge bullets. In fact, it looked eerily similar to the Hydra assault rifles used during WWII. But the tesseract was lost. Another boom rings through the park, dragging Steve out of his confusion. He slings the rifle around him. For some reason, the agent is also carrying two semiautomatic pistols, still in their holsters. Steve clips them to his belt.

“Okay,” he says, mostly to reassure himself more than anything else, “time to beat up some fucking Nazis.”

* * *

When Steve finally makes it to the entrance, having picked off no less than thirty agents during his stealth run, Stark Park is a veritable battlefield. From his low vantage point, Steve can see Nat and Loki on the ground, breaking through waves of agents with what looked like electroshock bracelets and throwing knives. Thunder booms, and a bolt of lightning crashes into a group of agents as they aim their force guns vainly toward the sky, shooting at some unseen force. Moments later, the unseen force (Thor) does the same. Clint and Bruce are nowhere to be seen. There seems not be no civilians left, so Steve assumes they’ve been assisting with evacuation. He does a quick sweep, edging closer, until he’s close enough to pull an agent advancing onto Nat into the bush and knock him out. This agent was wearing military standard sunglasses. Steve takes them (slightly cracked now from the force of his punch, but whatever) and puts them on before raising his shield and stepping out into battle.

It takes less than twenty seconds for Hydra to notice that there was a new player on the field, and those on the peripheral of attacking Nat, Loki, and Thor turn to flock to him instead. Steve manages to punch his way through a few dozen before they really start to overpower him, so he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small disc, slapping it onto the nearest agent and then using his shield to barrel out of the knot of people. He lifts his shield, and moments later the detonation goes off, a force blast that flings the agents in various directions, one of them taking out the agent fighting Nat. She blinks, noticing Steve for the first time.

“Wow,” she says, not taking her eyes off him as she grabs an agent coming up to her from behind and throws him, “Are you trying to open up a portable Nazi military paraphernalia shop?”

Steve, rifle in one hand and shield in the other, blasts some advancing agents into the river. “I didn’t have any weapons, so I thought I’d just collect some souvenirs from the ones I knocked out. I’ll sell you some of those force blast disks for the low price of $9.99 if you want.”

Nat snorts and smashes the head of another agent in before firing a round straight past Steve into an advancing agent’s head. “How about I get some for saving your life.”

“That's fair,” Steve says, digging into his pocket to give her a few. She nods at him, smoothly sliding something into his hand as they trade off.

“A comm device,” she explains, “Fiddle with it a bit to hear Clint yelling.”

“Thank you,” Steve throws his shield and watches it ricochet off several agents as he stuffs the comm into his ear. Immediately, he hears Clint say, “Loki, on your right, there’s an agent there trying his hardest to stab you, it’s almost cute, really.”

“Thank you for the commentary, Clint,” Loki snarls, and Steve can no longer see him but a blast of green light to his north tells him a vague location. “Not distracting at all.”

Clint laughs, and an arrow embeds itself into an agent in front of Steve. “Welcome to the party, Steve. How many guns are you carrying?”

“I stopped counting after I picked up the seventh,” Steve says, slowly making his way to where Loki and Thor are currently doing some sort of elaborate push-pull scheme with several dozen agents. Loki and several clones of himself herd agents backwards until they’re all knee deep in the pool, and then Thor raises a monster of a mallet, summons a massive strike of lightning, and fries all the agents at once.

“Nice,” Steve says, wincing. Loki grins at him.

“Looks like they’re finally running out of manpower,” Nat’s voice crackles in their ears. Steve keeps punching and blasting, but it does seem like the Hydra agents have lost traction. “Clint, civilian status?”

“All civilians were evac’ed about twenty minutes ago, Nat. We’ve been at this particularly nasty rat infestation for almost a full hour. Bruce is safe. I think.”

“Yeah,” Bruce’s voice joins them, a bit shaky but seemingly alright. “I’m here monitoring the comms.”

“This is good,” Steve says, “We finish them off, and then Tony can start cleanup.”

“Yes,” Clint cheers, “We’ll get this wrapped up in the next ten minutes, tops.”

As he says that, tendrils of red, glowing sparks curl around the base of a lifeguard chair and yanks it out of the ground before hurtling it straight to a tower – the tower where Clint was camping.

“Shit!” Steve hears before the line buzzes flat.

“Clint is offline,” Bruce says, voice panicky, “Clint is offline, Jarvis is picking up two – no, three extraordinary life forms in the area.” As he speaks, one of the water slide towers crumbles onto Steve and Loki with a horrific crash. “Guys, I think we’re fucked.”

Shaking off the rubble, Loki growls, deep and low in his throat as his own magic lashes out around him, working up a green light show. “There is a magic user here. Some volatile child who never learnt the ways of seiðr. Leave them to me.” With that, he disappears. Steve dusts himself off as well, pushing the debris off with his shield.

And then he’s on the floor.

“What the –” is all he manages to say before he’s knocked clean off his feet again, twice, three times, and then thrown into a slab of concrete. Steve gasps, wind knocked out of him as he quickly loads his rifle and raises his shield, on guard. 

“Hey, American,” A cocky voice sounds from the top of the rubble pile that used to be a tower, “Looking for something?”

Steve aims up with his rifle and shoots a blast at the voice.

“Oops,” The voice belongs to a young male, probably twenty with terrible blonde hair holding his shield. His fucking shield. “Did you see that coming?”

“Give that back,” Steve says, low and deadly. The man evidently falters, but he shakes it off and shrugs instead.

“If you can catch me, you can have it,” he says cheekily, and then vanishes in a blue blur before Steve could blink.

Steve groans, hoisting the rifle up into an optimal position. “Team, how are we looking?”

“I’ll tell you how we’re fucking looking,” Tony says, the Iron Man Mark II suit landing in front of him. “We’re looking like millions of dollars in collateral damage.”

“Hey Tony,” Steve says, relieved. The Iron Man faceplate just stares at him, managing to convey displeasure despite not moving from a neutral state at all.

“Don't you ‘hey Tony’ me, you goddamn rule breaker,” Tony grumbles and starts to clear the rubble. “Here.”

A suitcase is dropped in front of him. Steve clicks it open quickly, and stares at the arm gauntlets sitting in them.

“They help your shield return to you,” Tony tells him, “It uses a specialized, concentrated magnetic field that only the iron concentration in vibranium responds to. I’d ask you to try it now, but it looks like you’ve run into some trouble.”

“More like it ran into me,” Steve sighs, strapping on the gauntlets anyway. “Thank you, Tony.”

“Anything for you, darling,” the Iron Man suit says. “Now let’s get to kicking ass – wait, I have an idea. Jarvis baby, are we still connected to the park’s speaker system?”

“I believe we are, sir.”

“Good. Put all speakers to full volume, we gotta make this count.”

“What are you doing?” Steve asks. The Iron Man suit doesn’t answer, but Steve can just tell that his boss is grinning.

“Hey Jarvis, play  Despacito .”

* * *

Around the fifth loop of reggaeton Latin pop, Steve feels as if he might be going crazy. The only advantage of the situation was that the dwindling number of agents were in the same boat. Luis Fonsi croons into their ears as another agent makes a half-hearted attempt at decapitating him. Steve punches him into a wall. Moments later, he’s on the ground again.

This time, he leaps up immediately, enhanced eyes immediately tracking a red and blue blur to the side. He aims just slightly in front and fires, managing to hit the pesky youth into the same wall as the agent.

“Steve, I’m tracking an incoming human impact,” Bruce says helpfully. Steve dusts himself off and walks over to where the man is groaning on the floor.

“Incoming already came,” he growls, and the youth has the decency to look sheepish. He’s still holding on to Steve’s shield, so Steve activates his arm gauntlets and it jumps back into his hands.

“Okay, okay, okay! I’m sorry American,” the enhanced whines, raising his hands, “I think we may have started off on the wrong foot.”

“Oh really,” Steve says, and punches him. Well, tries to.

The man disappears, and Steve’s fist crashes into the ground. “You fucking –”

There’s a clap of thunder and then Thor is next to him, holding the now smoking and thoroughly frazzled enhanced youth like a sack of potatoes. Steve can’t help but grin.

“I’m sorry sir,” he says smugly as the man tries to squiggle out of Thor’s iron grip and then collapses, exhausted, “But there’s no running allowed at the wave pool.”

* * *

One enhanced detained, Steve, Thor, and Tony get to picking off the rest of the general Hydra foot soldiers. From the other side of the park, a literal light show of destruction cracks through the air as Loki and the other magic user battle it out. Nat manages to find Clint, unconscious, and takes him back to the med bay. As Steve waits for his shield to come back after making a large dent in an agent, Bruce’s voice sounds urgently in his ear.

“Tony, Steve, there’s something heading your way  _ fast _ , a large-caliber projectile, get the fuck away now!”

“Fuck!” Tony hisses, and he jets off as Steve starts running. Moments later, a rocket grenade crashes where they had just been standing.

Steve immediately swivels and catches sight of the muzzle of a bazooka being lowered from the tallest water tower. He takes aim with his rifle.

“Bruce, who’s up there?” Tony asks.

“Can’t tell,” Bruce says, “They shot out the camera.” Steve squints, and manages to catch the barely noticeable set-up of a long-range rifle next to a barely visible human.

“We got a sniper,” he says grimly, adjusting the gun. Then he sees the glint of metal, just slightly too much to be a weapon, and suddenly Steve finds that he can’t pull the trigger.

“Tony,” he says, his voice sounding distant, “That’s Bucky.”

Tony turns to look, lifts his repulsor, and blasts a beam that narrowly misses the figure ducking behind the slide. Steve immediately tackles him.

“ _ Tony _ ,” he growls, but the Iron Man suit just pushes him off.

“He betrayed you, Cap,” Tony says, furious, “Even before this, he was a kill on sight criminal. I don’t want any more deaths, but I don’t want it at the cost of your life.”

Steve glares at him, “He’s my friend.”

“He was your friend.”

“Tony, I want to help him. I just want to get him out of this hell that he’s in. Being forced to do things against your will, unable to combat the destruction you never wanted to cause, that’s something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.” Steve pauses. “You would know.”

Tony stills. “You read the reports. Of Afghanistan.”

“I may have,” Steve replies, sighing. “I don’t want to fight you, Tony.”

“Neither,” the Iron Man suit says, sounding defeated and tired. “I can’t stop you, can I?”

“Not a chance,” Steve tells him. Tony sighs with great suffering, and waves his hand.

“If you get murdered I will kill you,” he says, and Steve smiles, “Don’t think for a single second that you’re still hired, by the way, I was serious about that.”

“I’ll start job-searching as soon as we’re done here,” Steve promises, already turning to run towards the tower, “Maybe I’ll take up something less violent, like professional wrestling.”

“You do that,” Tony snorts, repulsor blasting another agent, “Oh yeah, Jarvis? I think I’m done with Spanish billboard top hits - change song to YMCA.”

* * *

Steve launches himself up the stairs of the tower as fast as he can, dodging the bullets the ricochet off the metal structure around him.

“Bucky,” he yells, “BUCKY!”

The bullets pause as Steve turns onto the final landing. Then he hears the telltale click of a reloaded bazooka. “Fuck.”

He leaps up a flight of stairs as the grenade shatters the landing, effectively making the staircase start crumbling to the group. Steve scrambles up the slowly loosening steps, racing against gravity to jump onto the top landing.

“Bucky,” he pants, and looks at him. “Bucky, it’s me, Steve.”

Bucky stands there, decked out in black with a knife in hand, dead-eyed and dirtied hair. He stares at Steve, with low simmering anger.

“You’re not Steve,” he growls. Steve stares at him. “You’re my mission.”

And with a shout, he launches himself at Steve, driving the knife into his abdomen.

“Shit!” Steve chokes out, gasping at the sharp pain that sears through him. “Fuck!”

He grabs Bucky and twists himself away, managing to raise his shield in time to block a solid metal punch. Bucky hisses, low and animalistic, and kicks his knee. Steve buckles, but he doesn’t hit back. He can’t hit back.

“I won’t fight you again,” he coughs, and Bucky punches him in the face. His back hits the railing, which creaks under his weight, and his vision blurs. Blood drips out of his mouth. Bucky’s face contorts in anger, and he launches himself at Steve, who barely lurches away in time. Unfazed, Bucky’s flesh hand lifts up and shoots him right in the shoulder. Steve collapses with a hiss.

“Bucky, I’m Steve, Steve Rogers,” he coughs as he’s dragged upwards into the air by the throat until he’s dangling by Bucky’s metal arm, choking as the fingers crush his larynx slowly. He claws at them feebly, and tries to glance at Bucky, who looks absolutely  _ destroyed _ . His face is warped between so many emotions that despite it being Steve who is currently dying, he feels terrible for Bucky. Suddenly, the fingers around his neck disappear and Steve crumples in front of Bucky, who punches him again so dizzingly hard that Steve’s cheekbones crack against the concrete floor. Bucky keeps pummeling him, and Steve just lies there, vision almost gone, blood pooling in his mouth, body screaming, and lets him. Eventually, Bucky slows down, stopping his assault.

“Why,” he whispers, and it’s a frustrated, confused, defeated plea, “Why are you doing this? Why won’t you fight back? Why do you  _ care?” _

Steve coughs out the blood in his mouth to breathe, nose definitely broken. He’s never thought about this before this moment. He’s never had to say it out loud. But it’s now or never. 

“I loved you,” he manages to wheeze, words slurring, “I love you, an’ I will always love you. ‘m with you til the end of th’ line, Buck, wh’rver th’t is.”

Bucky scrunches his eyebrows desperately. “Steve,” he says, in the most broken voice Steve has heard in his ninety years of living. He drags Steve into a sitting position, and Steve gasps in pain, already shutting down when he hears a beeping. “Whssat?”

Bucky lurches to his feet, arms wrapped around Steve.

“Detonation at the tower base and in slide,” he replies, almost sounding apologetic, “Was triggered to blow after fifteen minutes as soon as you started up the stairs.”

“No way to g’ down,” Steve groans, head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Y’ broke th’ stairs.”

“That’s true,” Bucky says.

“Well, I’m with you until the end of the line,” he says.

“Hold on tight, pal,” he says, and then launches both of them off the side of the tower in freefall as the bomb detonates.

“M’therfucker,” Steve says as they fall, and then slips into unconsciousness.

* * *

For what seems like the billionth time, Steve blinks blearily awake in a hospital.

It’s an actual ward this time, not some makeshift bed in a meeting room made by Tony Stark. Steve can hear the hum of equipment and machinery in the hall outside, and the beeping of his vitals on his left. He shifts slightly and groans; head flopping back onto the cushion as every broken bone in his body decides to protest at the same time.

Steve gives up on moving and stares resolutely at the ceiling. He doesn’t even know what day it is.

After a few minutes, his door opens with a click. Steve can’t see who it is because of the curtain pulled around his bed area, but he could hazard a guess.

“Wow,” Clint whistles, throwing aside the curtain as striding over to open the window. It refuses to budge beyond a measly three inches and he huffs. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies as Bruce appears as well with a small wave, smiling softly. Steve attempts to lift his hand to return the gesture, but it takes just a bit too much effort. “Hey Bruce. How are you guys holding up?”

“Good,” Bruce responds, “Minimal injuries save for you, Clint, and Loki’s slightly bruised ego. The fight was over pretty much when you exploded the Vuvuzela.”

“That’s. That’s great,” Steve says with relief, then, “Where are the others?”

“They’re only allowing in two people at a time for visitation,” Clint interjects as he puts down a screwdriver kit and wrenches the entire window frame out of the wall, “So Stark’s distracting them with a big billionaire tantrum while Nat climbs in through the window. Speak of the devil,” He adds as Nat swings up onto the ledge with a cheeky finger wiggle.

“Hey fellas,” she says, hopping lithely into the room and putting a colorful bunch of flowers onto Steve’s bedside table, “Looking handsome, Cap.”

Steve dips his head in acknowledgement of her teasing, smiling despite the dull pain. The bones are already setting with minimal fuss, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, reading over the report clipped to the edge of Steve’s bed as Clint sets about reinstalling the window. Steve’s definitely awake and coherent, but there’s a cocktail of painkillers surging through him that slows his reaction time and makes everything pleasantly fuzzy so it takes some time for him to answer.

“Not bad,” he says truthfully, “Kind of sore and definitely not moving until I’m sure my tailbone’s back in one piece, though. It feels a bit like I just went through basic again.”

“I’m jealous,” Clint grumbles from where he’s trying to re-screw back the hinges of the window, “I get a lifeguard chair thrown at me and now I have several fractured ribs that will take weeks to heal. Cap gets his face turned into the red equivalent of mashed potato by a cybernetic arm and wakes up four days later still looking sort of like a human being.”

“Hey,” Steve tells him, “This is what natural beauty looks like.”

“Shut it,” Clint threatens by waving his screwdriver in Steve’s general direction, “Or I’ll unscrew the nails keeping your jaw together myself.”

“You,” Bruce interrupts before Steve can bring the wrath of Clint having a mid-life crisis upon himself, “You couldn’t have thought about any other food that would be more similar to the state of Steve’s face?”

“What?” Clint huffs hotly, finishing the last screw and flipping the screwdriver back into the kit, “What other simile could I have possibly used that would have been be better than mashed potato?”

“Minced meat?” Nat suggests.

There’s a pause.

“Fuck,” Clint says.

* * *

They collectively decide to stay around and chat with Steve while waiting for Tony to either blast or buy his way into the ward, catching him up on what he might have missed while in a medically-induced coma and complaining about the terrible TV channels he’s provided with.

“You have to pay to get the good channels,” Clint groans, “What sort of capitalistic bullshit is this? People are dying, just let them watch  _ The Bachelor _ for free.”

“Anyone who wants to watch  _ The Bachelor _ should pay for that,” Nat says idly, watching Steve flip through the manila file she probably pulled out of her ass.

“You know, I don’t know if you meant it in the monetary sense or in the ‘people who watch  _ The Bachelor _ make it onto your hit list’ sense, and I’m too afraid to ask for confirmation,” Clint replies.

“You should be,” Nat tells him as Steve interrupts with a “So the two enhanced were twins?”

“Yes,” Bruce explains, “Pietro and Wanda Maximoff. Born and raised in a Roma camp near the borders of Sokovia until the camp was attacked in what I can only describe as a hate crime. Both their parents were killed and they escaped - straight into Hydra’s waiting arms. They both volunteered for human genetic modification, like you did. Just - for a different side.”

Steve feels a pang in his chest. That could have been me, he thinks. But it wasn’t, a voice reminds him. “What’s going to happen to them now?” he asks.

“They’re currently under incredibly secure surveillance,” Nat steps in, “S.H.I.E.L.D is going to pass them to someone who’s supposed to be incredibly well-versed in dealing with enhanced beings, some Professor X.”

“I just want to make sure that they’re going to be alright,” Steve says, because now that he knows their history it’s a lot harder to be mad at them. Nat pats his arm reassuringly as Clint changes the channel yet again.

“They’ll be fine,” she says soothingly, “Professor X is a good man.”

“That’s good,” Steve says, next question on the tip of his tongue, “Also, there’s nothing in this file about B-”

“Oh, fuck me,” Clint suddenly screams as Natasha quickly slips a lighter into her belt, “I think my foot is on fire!”

Steve sighs and passes them his water jug. At least fifteen minutes is then spent with Clint in theatrics as his shoe smoulders and Bruce dismantling the smoke alarm hurriedly as so not to arouse suspicion. Steve waits patiently, but once it’s evident that everyone had pushed the conversation onwards and left him in the dust, he stops being so patient.

“Where’s Bucky?” He finally manages to blurt out when they’re mid-discussion about Clint’s potential second-degree foot burn, tired of their aversion.

They all pause and exchange looks. Steve huffs. “Look, I just – I just want to know how he’s doing.”

“The Soldier was incapacitated after falling off the tower. Analysis of the footage during that time shows that he broke your fall by bearing the brunt of the impact himself. He is currently undergoing supervised recovery,” Nat finally says. Steve leans back with deep exhale. Closes his eyes.

“So he’s okay,” He says.

“Yeah,” Nat says grimly, “He’ll be okay until he wakes up, and then he’ll be put on trial for attempted murder. That’s about when he stops being okay.”

Steve stills, but refuses to open his eyes to display the panic slowly setting into him. “He’s not a criminal.”

“Technically he is,” Clint says, “But we’re not bein’ specific here so keep going, Cap.”

Nat sighs. “He misinformed us about the location of an attack, attempted to kill or at least seriously injure and kidnap seven civilians, and caused structural damage worth millions. And that’s not even touching on his track record past the last ten days. He’s going on trial unless someone offs him first, and that’s after Tony’s pulled all the strings he possibly can.”

Steve sighs, and it sounds heavy even to his own ears. He’s angry. Whether the anger is directed at Hydra, the government, Bucky, or himself, he doesn’t know. Maybe all of the above, all at once.

“I call first shot at attempting to off him, then,” he says, finally opening his eyes to stare at the plaster ceiling, only half-joking.

“You’re just going to pretend to kill him, then run away to Iceland to elope and start a goat farm or something,” Nat tells him. Steve cracks a smile.

“Well, you’ve got me there,” he tells her, and Tony, Thor, and Loki choose that exact moment to tumble into the room, the distant sound of yelling muted as Thor slams the door shut and Tony locks it.

“Took you guys long enough,” Clint snorts.

“Fuck,” Tony swears, “I think I threw my back during my dramatic monologue. Steve, you better appreciate our efforts to get up here.”

“I’ve never appreciated anything more,” Steve says with the utmost seriousness. Thor wiggles into view, stepping into Steve’s direct line of vision as if he thought Steve was capable of  _ not _ seeing him. He’s beaming, and Steve can’t help but grin back. Thor’s infectious in that way.

“Oh yeah, we got you a  _ Get Well Soon _ card,” Tony says, voice trembling with hidden snickers. Thor hands him another monster of an envelope, minty-green colored and equally minty smelling, “It’s scented.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh no, we really did,” Tony replies, voice full of syrup and mirth.

Steve opens the envelope and lifts out what smells like an A3 piece of cardboard drenched in the world’s worst attempt at making massage oils. The card itself is the same mint green as the envelope with a massive embossed cross in silver on the front and  _ Happy 87 _ _ th _ _ Birthday, Grandpa  _ in flowing script circling it. Upon opening it up, Steve discovers heartfelt messages for his recovery written by everyone currently sitting around him, along with one from Coulson and another from Sam. Thor and Clint’s messages take up about three quarters of the card though, which means the rest are squeezed into the remaining space as best they can. Steve is pretty sure he’s going to have to read Loki’s with a magnifying glass.

“Thank you, guys,” he says truthfully, because he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t getting a bit choked up at this support. And all the mint. “It means a lot to me, even if I’m pretty sure you’re all just giving me the worst cards you can find at this point.”

“We would  _ never _ ,” Tony gasps, hand flying to his arc-reactor dramatically as Thor says “How dare you accuse us of such infantile actions?” with just enough kicked-puppy sorrow to make Steve almost apologize.

“I’m in hospital, not eighty-seven,” Steve points out to them, “And I don’t think anyone wishes for this much mint in their nostrils at any point in time, nasal problems or not.”

“My mistake,” Tony says, eyes twinkling, “I forgot you’re older than that.”

“Tony, I sw–”

Thor cuts him off (literally, Steve chokes a bit) and leans in to give Steve what is possibly the most awkward hug ever, due to the fact that he’s half kneeling on the floor and very lightly attempting to wrap his arms around Steve without actually moving him. He doesn’t let go, even after Steve pats him on the back, but just squeezes a little tighter. Steve, feeling his arm cry out in protest at the angle, gives up and accepts the loving assault. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony contemplate something, before striding over and shimmying halfway onto Steve’s bed to join the hug.

“Aw, cute,” Clint says, and soon all of them are piled onto Steve in one big dogpile. He grunts a bit under the weight, but there’s a smile on his aching jaw as he lies amongst them, listening to Tony’s muffled protests as Loki digs his bony elbows into him, Nat’s chuckling, the steady breathing of Thor as he shifts to envelope Bruce into the hug, and the beginning of a snore escaping from Clint’s mouth.

They stay like that, holding each other contentedly, until Pepper busts the lock down with several doctors and nurses in tow and gives them all the biggest earful known to man.

* * *

Steve wakes up early one morning in the weeks following, still in his hospital bed, and senses someone in the room with him. The curtain is drawn, but if he squints he can make out a silhouette hovering behind it.

“Who’s there,” he rasps, throat a little dry as he pings the nurse for some water absently. “You know I hate it when people hover, Stark, if that’s y–”

Bucky Barnes pulls back the curtain and stares at him.

“Hi Steve,” he says quietly as Steve freezes up, mind blanking, “I’m here to apologize.” And then he just stands there, shifting awkwardly as Steve’s brain beings to come back online.

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” Steve says once his mouth starts working, and throws his bedside table at him.

* * *

“Why are you running,” Steve shouts several minutes later as he chases Bucky through the corridors of the hospital, both of them still in hospital gowns and causing quite a lot of damage. They’re both slightly sluggish from recovering injuries, but that doesn’t stop Bucky from trying to close as many doors as possible on Steve’s nose or Steve from attempting to throttle Bucky with a stethoscope.

“You’re chasing me!” Bucky hollers back, ignoring a shrieking janitor as he vaults over her linen cart.

_ “Stop running so I can kill you,” _ Steve bellows. Something in his knee cracks ominously.

“Look pal, you’re not really giving me any incentive to stop here,” Bucky tells him, sliding down the banister of the stairs. Steve groans and starts down normally after him. He’s still watching his damn tailbone.

“I trusted you,” he yells dramatically once he’s at the bottom, picking up a trash can and lobbing it at Bucky’s head angrily, “I trusted your writing because I still believed that you were you, somewhere under all that Hydra bullshit, and you went and gave us the wrong information! And while I definitely believe you’re still Bucky, it still fucking hurts! I lost my job for this!”

Bucky scowls and bats it away. “I fucking didn’t! I wrote on the mirror in the noodle man’s house exactly where we were going!”

“You attacked Stark’s water park!”

Bucky glances back at him and skids to a halt to grab the handles of a hospital cart. “Yes! That’s where they made us attack!”

“ _ You wrote Stark Entertainment _ ,” Steve roars. Bucky stops, mid-swing of his new projectile.

“There’s  _ two _ Stark Entertainments?” he says disbelievingly.

Steve also pauses. “Wait, what? No, there isn’t.”

“Then why did you say what I wrote was wrong?”

“Um,” Steve says, blinking, “There’s Stark Park, which is the water park, and then there’s Stark Entertainment HQ, which manages the social entertainment portion of Stark Industries.”

“Oh,” Buck says, lowering the cart down slowly, “So that’s what I got wrong.”

“What?”

“I. Might have not been able to remember how to write water park,” Bucky says, refusing to look at him as he pushes the slightly dented hospital cart down the hall.

“So you wrote Stark Entertainment instead.”

“In the bathroom, yeah,” Bucky says defensively, “Thought you smartasses might have been able to make the connection, but I guess I underestimated the number of brain cells I was working with.”

“Buck,” Steve says, kind of at a loss, “Those are two completely different words. They don’t even start with the same letter.”

“I’m aware, thanks,” Bucky snaps back, still refusing to look at Steve. He stares at the wall instead. “Sorry that I panicked once I realised that Hydra was coming for me.”

“Oh no, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Steve says automatically, hand on Bucky’s shoulder before he even registers that he’s done the action. Bucky stiffens, but relaxes once he’s sure that Steve isn’t going to rip off his left arm or anything like that. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Funny you should say that,” Bucky says, glancing at Steve out of the corner of his eye as the commotion of hospital staff following their path of destruction draws closer, “Sensing that a few minutes ago you were trying to kill me.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, “I wasn’t really going to. Just maybe knock you out a little. For my own personal satisfaction.”

“You’re the biggest jerk in the fucking world,” Bucky tells him as security rounds the corner and shouts at them, “Why the hell did they ever make you Captain America?”

Steve smiles dopily and shrugs. “Wish I knew, buddy. Wish I knew.”

* * *

Everything progresses more or less smoothly after that, which is weird, because Steve’s fairly sure that  _ seventy years _ of brainwashing and torture shouldn’t be able to be broken just by his face, but it happens. It’s still slow work, though, because even though Bucky spends most of his day being briefed by his lawyers supplied by Tony, going to both physical and cognitive therapy, and doing really well in all tasks, he still wakes up screaming sometimes and blank looks often fall across his face, clear signs of disassociation. Steve just wants to help, but if he hates hovering, Bucky  _ despises _ it. He appreciates Steve’s help, sure, but after the fifth time Bucky wakes up in the middle of a panic attack to see Steve just standing there helplessly while waiting for the nurses to come he decides that it’s for the best if Steve just stood outside instead of trying to make Bucky calm down by the sheer force of his sad eyebrows.

Bucky’s trial comes and goes with relatively little hassle, because everyone Tony knows from lawyers and publicists to probably even his third-grade teacher all hush up the story and bury his existence under false information fed like bait to tabloids. There are news interviews where Tony talks until the reporters run out of space on their recording devices, only for them to return back to work and realise he hadn’t said anything that could be important, meetings with what’s left of S.H.I.E.L.D and documents to sign, higher-ups to please, lawyers to meet with who all but pull an O.J. Simpson. Not to mention, Steve makes undocumented history as what could possibly be the victim with the most interest in making sure his attacker walks free to ever step foot into a court of law.

“It’s like he’s talking to a brick wall,” Clint says, staring wondrously at the judge’s attempt to cross-examine Steve.

“Nah,” Tony says, lounging back with his feet up on the seat in front of him, eating smuggled-in fries and flapping his greasy fingers at Steve, “Brick walls don’t use that many non-sequiturs.”

“In light of this evidence, do you maintain that Sergeant Barnes did not intend to cause you grievous harm, Captain?” The judge sighs, already tired with the trial. For some reason, the prosecution had little interest in actually doing any prosecuting.

“Yes sir,” Steve says stoically, grainy footage of Bucky beating his lights out playing in front of him, “He’s never touched a person in his life.”

“That blow he just delivered cracked the concrete with your jaw.”

“That’s just a fist-bump I missed,” Steve replies with the same blank tone and the judge gives up.

Bucky Barnes walks free a couple of hours later. Steve sits on the steps of the justice hall shaking his leg impatiently until Bucky steps out into the setting sun, cap pulled low over his brow and backpack slung over one shoulder. Steve stands up and waves him over.

“Congratulations on being pronounced not guilty,” Steve says with a broad smile as Bucky walks up to him, and is rewarded with a silver of a grin.

“Not guilty to one thing,” Bucky murmurs, still refusing to look Steve straight in the eye. Over the month or so after the Hydra fight, Steve’s noticed this quirk of his; when Bucky feels emotion stronger than what a wet sock should feel, he can’t look people in the eye. Steve doesn’t mind this. Not at all.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells him, “Buck, you’ve got time now. We can work through this, whatever it takes to help you.”

Bucky shifts his backpack and squints out into the sun. “And who’s going to take care of all the lives I ruined under Hydra command?”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. “We – We can talk about it. If you want to. Help one of them, I mean. But I think that it’s not your fault. Not entirely, at least. You don’t shoot the messenger, do you?” Bucky snorts.

“Maybe,” he smiles thinly, and starts walking away. “I’m hungry. What do you recommend, for my first proper meal in the twenty-first century that isn’t hospital food?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Steve says jogging after him with a sappy grin, “There’s this really good Mexican place…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and with that, this fic's main storyline is done!! There's just one more short epilogue to go, which isn't that important but does answer some questions you probably didn't have (and whatthefoucault drew something that was frankly adorable for it so you should check it out just for that) ;')
> 
> also I, uh, made a playlist of what sort of songs I was thinking would have played during the battle if Tony hadn't just put despacito and YMCA. You can listen to [it on spotify lmao](https://open.spotify.com/user/22z6pylty5z2x57fjgjyp4gyy/playlist/7d3bRsQEK8LDxhbad3Y788)
> 
>  
> 
> thank you so much for reading and i hope you have enjoyed this wild ride!!


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An arrangement of sorts is made. A good one.

**THREE WEEKS LATER**

“So,” Bucky says one day when they sit down at a nice café with more coffee options than food ones for lunch, “Your last name.”

Steve spits out a mouthful of roast chicken and throws his hands up in the air. “Oh for _ God’s  _ sake–”

“No, no,” Bucky says hurriedly, shushing him. “I didn’t mean it like that, sorry.” Steve lets his arms slump with a groan.

“Everyone I met always makes fun of it and asks me if I really chose it or just got it through other means,” he says despondently. Looks up at Bucky and channels his best ‘kicked puppy’ look. “Thought you’d understand, Buck.”

Bucky looks torn between laughing and crying. He hesitantly takes a sip of his coffee, which Steve thinks is a generous name for something that’s both decaf and more milk than anything.

“Of course I do, Steve. It’s just. Confronting? I don’t know. I think all that freezing does something to your brain.” He mumbles, half into his coffee cup. Steve nods. He gets it.

“If – if it makes you uncomfortable, I can change it. You know I’d do it for you,” he says, and Bucky tries to drown himself in the cardboard cup. He emerges with a milk moustache and Steve can’t help but snort at him ungainly, which causes both of them to dissolve into giggles that two serum-pumped enhanced muscle masses should not be able to make.

“No,” Bucky says, wiping a tear from one eye.

“No?” Steve says, smile widening.

“Keep it. It suits you.” Bucky replies, stealing a bite of chicken from Steve’s plate, “And honestly? I’d have been offended if you chose any other.”

Steve smiles so hard that his cheeks start to hurt. Bucky grins back, a hesitant one that slowly melts away to become genuine, and after a short moment gestures down to the untouched chicken in front of them.

“Eat up,” he says, and Steve’s heart swells, “Or I’m going to take the rest of your shitty roast.”

* * *

Stark fires him and hires Bucky.

“This is so unfair,” Steve whines, watching Bucky check himself out in the mirror before leaving for work, “You’re not even operating the slides. You’re just hired muscle.”

Bucky tries and fails for the fifth time to do up his tie and decides to just leave the fabric hanging loosely around his neck. He checks his pocket for a hair tie and then attempts to pull the mop on his head into a ponytail, which ends up in a similar situation to the tie.

“What can I say, Steve. I’m just too good looking to pass over.” He says, finally just leaving the hair tie stuck in his hair and going over to pick up his baton and Stark ID on the table.

“You look like your hair got into a fight with a lawn mower and lost,” Steve observes. Bucky gives him a stink eye.

“Like you could do better,” he shoots back, clipping on the small plastic tag.

“I can,” Steve says before he realises what he’s saying, “Come here.”

Bucky pauses, but before Steve can hurriedly rescind his offer starts making his way over slowly. He stops at where Steve is sitting at the lounge chair and stares down at him.

“Kind of hard to reach your head from down here, buddy,” Steve says, throat slightly dry. Bucky, very slowly, sits down. Then – Steve almost loses his breath – he turns around, for the first time since the court case, leaving Steve completely out of sight. It may not be much for anyone else, but for Bucky, who is still cautious as ever under all his bravado, it’s more than Steve’s ever wanted to ask of him.

“Okay,” he says, trying not to cry, “Okay. It’s gonna tug a little.”

“‘s fine,” Bucky grunts, barely, and Steve reaches out to gently yank the hair tie out of the knots. He manages to wrestle the bird nest on Bucky’s head into one semi-neat bundle, and carefully ties it up. It’s lopsided and half of Bucky’s hair is too short to reach the back, so it just falls into his face anyway, but it sure is better than the monstrosity it was before.

“There,” Steve says, giving him a light shoulder push. Bucky freezes, almost imperceptible, before smoothly getting up and striding over to the mirror immediately.

“Huh,” he says, reaching up to grasp the ponytail absently, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Steve says quickly, “Have a good day at work. I’ll just lie here on the couch, watching movies and waiting for you to get back.”

“I won’t,” Bucky calls, halfway out the apartment door, “Hurry up and get a job already before mushrooms start growing on you.”

“No,” Steve says, “Last time I went on Craigslist I’m pretty sure I was almost indoctrinated into a cult.”

Bucky’s gives him a gruff snort of laughter and Steve watches as the door to their Brooklyn apartment slams shut. He sits still for a while in the silence of the flat, and then makes a decision. He opens up his laptop, and starts to message Sam. There’s something he’s got to do.

* * *

“I was thinking,” Steve says that night, looking up from his laptop on the couch. Bucky hums from the dining table where he’s polishing up some firearms.

“And?” He replies absentmindedly. Steve takes a deep breath.

“I think we should get married.”

Buck stops mid-wipe of a pistol barrel. A tense beat of silence follows. Steve hurriedly starts to backtrack, but Bucky regains motion and shrugs, resuming his gun maintenance.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” Steve parrots. Bucky looks at him, brows furrowed.

“Okay, I’m marrying you. That was a proposal, right?”

“I – I mean, yes, it was, I just – I just wasn’t sure if you’d even like the idea at all,” Steve manages to stammer out. Bucky sighs, puts down the gun part he was holding lovingly, and walks over to sit next to Steve. Steve closes his laptop and puts it on the table, turning to face Bucky.

“Steve. Stevie. My man. I’ve known you since you were some skinny orphan from Brooklyn. In fact, I’ve known you for over _ ninety fucking years. _ I followed you through a fucking World War. You saved hundreds of men, me included, from HYDRA by yourself when the higher-ups would not allow it. You broke years of reprogramming and conditioning by just saying my name. You saved  _ me _ ,” Bucky says, his voice gravelly, and Steve’s throat gets a little tight.

“If it weren’t for you, I’d have died in an alleyway from a concussion before any of this could have ever happened,” he manages to choke out. Bucky laughs and pulls him into a friendly headlock, ruffling his hair with his metal arm as Steve yelps in good-natured protest.

“Guess we’re just two punks from Brooklyn, destined to live the rest of our lonely lives out together,” he says wistfully as Steve grunts and attempts to remove his head from Bucky’s soul-crushing grip.

“You just contradicted yourself,” he points out from under Bucky’s armpit, “We wouldn’t be lonely. We’d have each other. With you to the end of the line and all that.”

Bucky finally lets him go and Steve makes a show of gasping for air. Bucky punches him decently hard on the arm for it. Steve pretends it doesn’t hurt.

“You’re the most important person in my life. You’ve always been,” he says, staring straight at Bucky earnestly, who looks shocked into surprise. His eyebrows come together like he’s going to cry, and he looks away from Steve, gritting his teeth.

“You can’t – Steve, you can’t just  _ say _ things like that,” he hisses, and Steve falters for a second, reaching out to Bucky and carefully wrapping his hands around the other man as he shudders.

“I’m sorry?” he says hesitantly. Bucky curls into himself.

“You should be, you big oaf,” comes the muffled reply, “How the fuck am I supposed to respond now without looking pathetically inadequate? You even made the sun stream through the curtains at that  _ exact _ moment, you dramatic  _ fuck _ !”

Steve snorts in surprise, which causes him to start heaving with laughter so badly that he rolls away from Bucky and off the couch in hysterics. Bucky lifts his face from where it’s buried into his hands and whines, “Why are you laughing? Is this funny to you? Do you find my suffering hilarious?” but there’s a smile breaking out on his face as well.

Once they both calm down, Steve says, “Do you still want to marry me?”

“Sure,” Bucky answers, “But only for tax benefits.”

“Yes, of course,” Steve replies in his best Captain voice, “And joint health insurance. It’s cheaper.”

“Yeah, can’t forget that,” Bucky says. They lapse into a comfortable silence, smiling at each other like idiots.

“Do you actually?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake –  _ yes _ , you utter disaster, of course I’ll marry you. No, I won’t change my mind,” Bucky yells, throwing a pillow at him, Steve catches and grins over it broadly.

“I’m just making sure,” he says giddily, “Buck, we’re gonna be  _ married _ . Oh my God, I gotta tell Tony,” Bucky snorts in his general direction and gets up to resume cleaning his gun as Steve hurriedly fishes out his phone.

“You bet your star-spangled ass we’re gonna be married. Your theft of my last name is now legal.” He pauses. “Steven Grant Barnes, huh. You’ve had that name for almost two years now. I can’t believe you just assumed we’d be married before you knew I was even alive.”

Steve flips him off as he listens to Tony’s phone ringing, still grinning.

“What can I say, Buck,” he replies as Tony picks up with a muffled curse, “I plan ahead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, this baby monster of mine is done. I had like three sentences of their honeymoon written as well (They go to Massachusetts, accidentally adopt a cow, and end up having to fight the Chitauri, in case you were wondering) but I got lazy and anyway I find it easier to just let all of your imaginations run wild to read it anyway :')
> 
> Again, the beautiful art by whatthefoucault can be found on their tumblr [here](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/post/178667734956/you-bet-your-star-spangled-ass-an-illustration), and my own tumblr is [here](http://tvheit.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for visiting Stark Park! We've truly enjoyed this journey with you.


End file.
